


^ o ti 0^ ^ 

s^VL% V^ c> 

“ c3^ '^rv “■ 

V. 





'^9 


,* ^ % 

'«.»' .O' ^<2 A <". '<■%■.'* 



9 I 1 


t • o 





4 o 

' -a> ^ 

^ O 

(,'5^” ,.. -ii-, ‘■■’««’ <= 

■!^ »‘'4*6^'. A 



• Cs^'^n 
* • 

" <y "o , * >» 0^ ^ 

yie/r?p^- %■ <?.’■-' ° 

< ml//^ * ^ « <* 

^ 0^ 



• « 




O ^ ^ 

^ ^ O 0 ^ 

^ ' O N O ° ^ ® 

*”‘^-5. ^^ ,* '' * O, ^ 

^ 0>- -Oi '^j. A^ ^ ^kO=" 



O « A 


* c;*^ '^fv ■* 

* 47 ^ 









• ft 


A <v *-^0 , A ^ .( 

" '*6 ^ 4 




* •?►' "x* ■> 



ft 
r* 

. .- . ‘* 

'**s‘^,A "<> .0^ ^ 

. 0^ ® 

J 4^ 

* <L^ o 0 

0 A v* r O <#* 


o V 




ft ft 


^ * 


- „ o* O 

0‘ 



»>* 


"'‘' aV'’ .Ci^ '^o ■'•^,. . 

- ^0^ 

\0 V* * 'V'^Rrf»i^-\V7 * -4 O 

?> ® VL ' V sv '^ * o X- i 0^ % ® ^ 


b V 









• (l^^rv 

'* “Qp '“c> * 


o'" 6 ® " ® -9 *^0 









V- <>''>•*'* < 

t / « Pi V 

cT [ / /'^-y T5^ ^ 












« 


/ \ 


t 









THINKING OF THE LOVED AND LOST. 

Fro 7 itispiece-i 226 







OR, 


THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


KY 



MARGIE S. HUGHES. 

\ - 


X 

V' 






r 




V 


C 1 N C I N N A 'r I : 

HITCHCOCK AND WALDEN. 
NEW YORK: 

NELSON AND PHILLIPS. 

1873 - 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, 


BY HITCHCOCK & WALDEN, 


In the OflSce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 






CHAPTER I. 

^VER the calm waters of a beautiful 
river the soft light of the moon fell 
gently, while upon its surface was 
mirrored many a bright star, shining far 
above it. Upon either side, the green banks 
sloped gradually to the water’s edge, while 
the light breeze of evening sent the tiny, 
moonlit waves rippling over the pebbles and 
moss-grown rocks with a pleasant, musical 
tinkle. The trees, laden with rich foliage, 
swayed gracefully to and fro, bowing their 
green heads low, as the same busy wind 
swept through them, with a faint, rustling sound 
that seemed like a half-plaintive whisper. Now 
and then the twittering note of some feath- 
ered songster, safely nestled amid the branches, 

3 



4 


ANNETTAj 


mingled itself with the sounds of nature. All 
was quiet and peaceful — so peaceful, indeed, that 
one standing upon the margin of the stream, and 
looking upon the work of the great Creator 
around, above, and beneath him, might well im- 
agine that here, at least, might be found a sure 
retreat from the many cares and perplexities 
which abound upon the world’s broad field of 
strife. 

But is the spot given up to nature alone? 
Shall the bright flowers of Spring here waste 
their fragrance, and the bird’s sweet song awaken 
no other response than the faint echo from across 
the waters ? Shall man not be permitted to share 
with the feathered warblers the quiet beauty of 
the place ? Our queries are soon answered ; for 
see, a tall figure appears in the distance. By the 
friendly light of the moon, we are enabled to note 
his movements. With a slow, measured' step, the 
figure advanced, and proved to be that of a man 
upon whom old Father Time had already left 
traces of his onward march. His head, with its 
locks of gray, was bowed low, the flowing beard 
resting upon his breast. His arms were tightly 
folded across the broad chest, as if to still the 
beatings of a heart whose every throb murmured. 
Unrest, unrest! What, shall disquietude intrude 
even here? Shall any thing bearing the impress 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 5 

of the world’s turmoil be found amid scenes like 
this.^ Ay; though we traverse the confines of 
the world, tread every path which the foot of 
mortal has trod, still are we pursued by the rest- 
less cry of human hearts, echoing ever and ever, 
Unrest, unrest! 

Slowly back and forth paced the solitary figure, 
seemingly so absorbed in his own meditations as 
to be wholly unmindful of all else. Time passed 
on. He heeded it not, continuing his walk, giv- 
ing vent now and then to a few murmured words, 
expressive of feelings wrought up to a state of 
great excitement. Suddenly he started, paused, 
and seemed to listen for some sound from a dis- 
tance. A murmur of voices arose, now quite 
drowning the soft music of the waters flowing at 
his feet. A moment later, a shout of laughter 
came ringing down from the cliff above, quickly 
followed by another, in which seemed blended 
a chorus of happy voices. The man evidently 
wished to be alone. He turned, and walking in 
the opposite direction, soon reached a spot where 
a bend in the river formed a kind of recess, quite 
secured from observation by the grand old trees 
which surrounded it. Upon the massive trunk 
of one of these he seated himself, resting his 
head upon his hand. Scarcely had he gained 
this retreat, before the approaching party came 


6 


ANNETTA; 


in sight. With many a gay jest and repartee, 
mingled with laughter and snatches of song, a 
group of young people descended the mossy 
bank, by the aid of some rustic steps almost 
concealed from view by the dense shrubbery 
clustering closely around them. The party con- 
sisted of Isabel Erasure, whose home was just 
visible from the cliff where they stood, and her 
cousins, Mabel and Godfrey Moorely, with two 
gentlemen from the city. Each appeared to be 
in the gayest of spirits, evidently bent upon 
enjoying to the utmost all the pleasures which 
came within their grasp. 

“Now, Miss Erasure, lead us to the elysium 
of which you have been giving us such glowing 
descriptions,” cried Mr. Harwood, as he held out 
his hand to assist Isabel to descend. 

Without accepting his proffered aid, she raised 
her hand with an independent gesture, shook 
back the curls from the bright young face, and, 
with a light, sure step, ran laughingly by him, 
reaching the bank first. 

“Well done,” said he. “I see you are accus- 
tomed to such means of descent.” 

“You may be sure Isabel made the acquaint- 
ance of those steps years ago. In truth, I ’m not 
certain but that they were constructed for her 
special benefit,” said her cousin Godfrey. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


7 


‘‘And by her directions too,” remarked Mabel. 

“Really, Miss Erasure, you have no idea how 
inexpressibly astonished I am,” said Mr. Winchell. 

“And why, may I ask.?” replied she, turning, 
with an air of surprise, to the speaker. 

“I had no idea a young lady could ever be 
brought to think she could accomplish such a 
feat as that without assistance,” answered Mr. 
Winchell, twirling his moustache in a style quite 
becoming, as he supposed, to a gentleman of 
means from the city. “However,” added he, “I 
presume young ladies about here are more inde- 
pendent in action than our city belles ; are they 
not. Miss Isabel?” 

“I can not answer for them, I am sure,” said 
Isabel. “As for myself, I should be sorry, indeed, 
to be obliged to depend upon any one for help, 
especially when I consider how often I should be 
under the necessity of remaining at home for the 
want of it.” 

“Ah,” replied the young gentleman, with an 
exceedingly consequential air, “would that I 
might be ever at hand to await your pleasure!” 

“Indeed,” retorted Isabel, “I’m afraid the 
waiting would be on my part.” 

“Ah, now. Miss Erasure, why so cruel and 
unjust!” cried he, with the air of an injured 
prince. 


8 


ANNETTA; 


A truce to such nonsense ! ’T is idle flattery 
all!” exclaimed Isabel, turning to her other 
friends, who had now joined them. 

“ Nay, now. Miss Erasure, wherefore — ” 

^‘Cousin Godfrey!” cried Isabel, turning from 
the young exquisite, “ come, we will lead the way 
to my favorite retreat!” and, with a quick step, 
she started, followed by Godfrey and the rest of 
the merry party, who could scarcely keep pace 
with the light-hearted girl, who, in a short time, 
had guided them to the place with which our 
story opens. 

After spending a • little while amid the quiet 
loveliness of Isabel’s favorite haunt, each giving 
vent to expressions of surprise and admiration, 
Isabel again announced her intention of acting 
as guide, and bade them follow whither she led. 
Gayly they obeyed, and in a few moments came 
upon a little curve or bend; and there, just at 
the water’s edge, a pleasure-boat was seen, fast- 
ened to its staple, moving slowly as the water 
surged gently beneath it. 

“O, a boat, a boat! That’s just the thing to 
complete our enjoyment! Now for a sail!” ex- 
claimed one of the party. 

“ Splendid !” cried another. “ Moonlight on the 
water is so enchanting !” 

Cousin Godfrey handed the ladies into the 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 9 

boat, and motioned the gentlemen to follow, 
while he proceeded to loosen the little white 
craft from her fastenings. Harwood stepped 

in and took his place beside Mabel Moorely; 
but Mr. Winchell drew back, with a look of 
dismay. 

“ Come, Mr. Winchell, plenty of room ; step in !” 
cried the ladies, noticing his hesilation. 

“ But is n’t it rather a dangerous undertaking 
asked he. 

“ Dangerous } Why, no ; not in the least. 
Cousin Godfrey understands the management of 
our little boat too well to admit of a thought 
of danger,” said Isabel. 

“ It ’s a very small affair, at any rate, and seems 
frail as an egg-shell,” replied Mr. Winchell, look- 
ing dubiously at the boat in question. 

^‘Time’s up !” cried Mr. Harwood. “The Water- 
Lily goes promptly on time, you know !” 

“Bound for the West Indies, Mr. Winchell! 
Shall we enroll you as a passenger.?” laughed 
Isabel, as the gentleman still stood irresolute 
upon the shore, looking down at his patent- 
leather boots, twirling his cane into the sand, 
idly casting a pebble, now and then, into The cir- 
cling waves. 

“ I ’d rather be excused,” said he, at length ; 
“and really do think, young ladies, the drawing- 


lO 


ANNETTA; 


room at home a much more becoming place 
for you.” 

A shout of laughter followed, in the midst of 
which Godfrey Moorely good-humoredly stepped 
behind Mr. Winchell, and, with one grasp of his 
powerful arm, deposited the young city exquisite 
in the stern of the boat. 

“All aboardT’ shouted he; and, with a stroke 
of the oar, away went the Water-Lily^ out into 
the stream. 

A little while was given up to gay conversation 
and merriment; and then, from beneath his seat, 
Godfrey drew forth a box, from which he took a 
guitar. To the surprise of all, he quietly handed 
it to Isabel, who received it without the slightest 
embarrassment or expression of astonishment. 

“Well,” said Mr. Winchell, recovering from 
the momentary chagrin he had experienced upon 
finding himself so unceremoniously enrolled as a 
passenger, “that must have been understood be- 
tween you ; but how did you manage to bring so 
large a package without being noticed .?” 

“ Was it stowed away in your vest-pocket, 
brother.?” asked Mabel Moorely, with a mischiev- 
ous srhile. 

“ It belongs to the Water-Lily I' answered 
Godfrey. 

“ O, it ’s a fixture here, is it .? — then I ’ve no 


[ 

I 

f 



THE PLEASURE-PARTY 


page lo 





1. -• » ' I t , , 



• 'r.J , 


'■ W' V;.v^'4;4r 


■, . m- ..•..rj^v,', .> ;.i ■., Ja ■ r 












li * r V/4:^ \ sl^ W^ V ' 3? 


V* 


n- 


K- ' 


.1 ‘f 




fit' 


Ai 






\ >f ' 






^ ,.\( i'/- ^ ■ ?r'«- ' -t —-5 


'•V •.. •» 












!?■ 


?< . 




A" 


& • 




1 






IT 






V. 


h: 


ffi ’ •« 


rvW, ' /I •' -■5/' • 

>iZ.*.r'. .^- 



fe; ..S?'^ 







!»e 


' T ,y'K • e.\w f-- vik £ .<* V ■ ..v 





'irtTiVv* 


r- 


I r 


I ‘ 




j * 


» I* 




OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


II 


doubt it is used often. Well, at all events, that 
proves that ‘thereby hangs a tale,’” said Mabel, 
bestowing an arch glance upon Isabel. 

Under Isabel’s skillful touch, the instrument 
sent forth sweet strains, which, borne upon the 
evening breeze, were wafted over the calm waters, 
and fell with touching beauty upon the ear of 
the lone man who still sat upon the trunk of 
the old tree, sheltered from sight by the foliage 
around him. Close beside him had the gay 
party stood when they entered the boat; for 
within the little cove formed by the bend in 
the river the Water-Lily was always moored. 
Quietly he had sat there, watching their move- 
ments ; and once, when Isabel’s white dress had 
fluttered almost within his grasp, his hand was 
raised to his brow, and he seemed with difficulty 
to repress a groan. And now, as the little boat 
with its precious freight went dancing gayly over 
the surface of the moonlit river, his dark eyes 
followed it with a look of eager intensity. “ If 
I could — O, if I could but weather the storm for 
her sake !” he moaned. “ It matters little to me 
now ; for myself I care not ; but for her, life is so 
bright and beautiful, and I, with my own hand, 
must dash its sweet hopes to the ground.” 
And the head, with its gray locks, fell again upon 
his hand. 


12 


ANNETTA ; 


But soon the dark, restless eyes were again 
turned toward the water. The little ' boat had 
disappeared, and all was still. He arose and 
began, as before, to pace slowly to and fro ; his 
hands now clasped behind him ; his hat drawn 
low over his brow. And there ’s Eugene, too,” 
he murmured ; it will be so hard for him. 
Just on the verge of success, my hand must stop 
all — my voice call him back. And Henry, too — 
poor boy, poor boy ! With such a proud spirit 
and uncurbed will ! Ah, how will he submit to 
this ? And little Nettie, the last little treasure 
added to our household gems ! O, my brain, 
my brain — ’t will drive me mad !” And with a 
quick, half-frenzied gesture, his hat was removed, 
and his hand, already hot and parched with fever, 
was pressed upon his aching brow. 

“ And how shall I tell Maria — how will she 
bear it V continued he, passing his hand now 
through the gray locks, in a weary, despairing 
manner. “ She, so used to every luxury — every 
pleasure that heart could desire.^ We are grow- 
ing old too ; life has less of the old fire and 
vigor of other days. Ah me ! how true it is, 
^ Changes will, changes must, upon us come !’ ” 

He paused, and looked again toward the river, 
and there, in the distance, appeared the Water- 
Lily ; and soon upon his ear fell the notes of a 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


13 


sweet, well-known song, one which Isabel was 
accustomed to sing for him in the evening at 
home. Nearer and nearer came the boat, closely 
watched by him who stood in the shadow of the 
trees. Suddenly he turned away, and walked 
rapidly in the opposite direction ; he gained the 
rustic steps, ascended, and soon stood upon the 
cliff above. Pausing a moment, he turned and 
cast a last look toward the river. The little boat 
had passed into the cove, and the party stood upon 
the shore. 

“ My poor, unconscious Isabel !” muttered the 
watcher; “a few more hours, and all that re- 
mains for us of happiness will be but the mem- 
ory of having once possessed it.” He strode 
away, and when the young folks reached the 
steps, he had disappeared. He did not slacken 
his pace till he reached his own gate. Passing 
through, he entered the lawn. How peaceful it 
seemed ! The circuitous path leading to the en- 
trance of the house gleamed out white and beau- 
tiful from amid the shrubbery by which it was 
bordered ; the moon bathed all in her soft light, 
casting a halo of beauty over the large white 
houje toward which he bent his steps. Upon 
the piazza, waiting for his coming, stood Mrs. Era- 
sure. She was a woman advanced in years, yet 
still possessing traces of beauty and grace. She 


14 


ANNETTA ; 


was dressed in faultless taste, and in manner and 
address was very much like Isabel. She came 
down the steps to meet her husband, and in a 
playful manner put her hand through his arm, 
exclaiming : “ Why, Arthur, what a truant you 
have become ! It is utterly impossible for me to 
keep track of you lately. But where have you 
been so long ? I ’ve felt so lonely.” 

Making a strong effort to regain his self- 
control, Mr. Erasure said something about tak- 
ing a stroll. 

“ Pretty well to go strolling round the country 
at this time of night, leaving me to amuse my- 
self as best I can,” said the lady, half in jest, 
half in earnest. 

‘‘I thought you had company, my dear.” 

“ Only for a short time ; a mere formal call of 
about eight or ten minutes’ duration ; and you 
stole out while I was engaged, you naughty 
man.” And she looked up, with a playful smile, 
into her husband’s face. Instantly a change 
passed over her own countenance. Something 
in his look startled her, and, with a little cry of 
fear, she stopped short. 

“ Arthur,” exclaimed she, something has hap- 
pened ! O, speak ! tell me, where is Isabel .?” 

“ With her friends, down at the cliff.” 

And Eugene — you have bad news from him. 


OR, THE STORY OF, A LIFE. 


15 


Tell me, Arthur ; keep nothing back !” And her 
clasp tightened on his arm, and her anxious face 
looked ghastly white, as the full rays of the 
moon fell upon it, raised beseechingly now to 
her husband. 

“ No, dear wife ; quiet those fears ; be at ease. 
Eugene is well and doing well, as far as I know. 
We have every reason to be proud of him.” 

“ Then what has occurred to distress you ? 
You are ill, and have kept it from me. Was 
this kind ? But come, you are ill, indeed,” con- 
tinued she, as she felt his hot hand tremble in 
hers. She drew him toward the house, anx- 
iously watching him as they went. To her 
eager inquiries he only answered quietly, “ I am 
not well, Maria; I need a little rest.” But his 
heart seemed to cry out, as he spoke, But 
where shall rest be found They entered the 
wide hall, and, throwing open the heavy oak 
door of the library, Mr. Brasure was soon re- 
clining on the softly-cushioned lounge beside the 
deep bay-window, his anxious wife near him, in- 
quiring what she could do to add to his comfort 
or pleasure. 

“ Nothing now, Maria ; I will just rest here 
awhile,” answered he ; and, not daring to trust 
himself to meet those tender eyes looking upon 
him with such wifely solicitude, he closed his 


i6 


ANNETTA ; 


own, feigning sleep to avoid speaking. Quietly 
she sat there watching him, wondering why he 
had grown so sad and quiet of late, noting care- 
fully the lines which seemed to have come over 
his face recently, and the careworn expression 
which had settled about the mouth and eyes, 
that ever before had seemed so frank and con- 
fiding. 

Wondering greatly that she had not noticed it 
before, pondering in her heart the probable cause, 
she still sat there musing. “True,” thought she, 
“ I have thought him absent-minded at times, and 
less communicative than formerly, but did not 
think of any serious illness. He never com- 
plains, poor, dear Arthur. I shall watch more 
closely in future. There has been so much com- 
pany in the house this season, and Isabel and I 
have spent a great deal of time in the city, too — 
and that reminds me of an engagement there 
next week. I would like to go, and had prom- 
ised myself great pleasure, it is true ; but I will 
not leave him ; my place is here. He needs me, 
and Isabel shall go alone and, with tender de- 
votion, she bent over him, and passed her soft 
hand caressingly through his hair. “Dear me, 
how strange !” thought she ; “why, I didn’t know 
he was growing so gray. Strange how quickly 
these silver threads appear when once old Time 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


17 


begins his work upon them ! Why, it seems to 
me they have changed very, very suddenly. What 
can have caused it ? I Ve heard of children 
bringing the gray heads of their parents with 
sorrow to the grave, but we have no such source 
of trouble ; our little flock are truly a blessing in 
every sense of the word. I do not understand 
it, I am sure. I feel so troubled, and can not 
tell why.” And the lady sighed as she turned 
her eyes to the lawn, resounding now with the 
glad voices of Isabel and her friends. 

They came in, and went at once to the pleas- 
ant drawing-room, where a short time was de- 
voted to music, after which they separated, the 
hour being late. The final adieus over, Isabel 
stood upon the piazza alone, watching the moon- 
beams lying upon the garden-walks, lighting up 
every object so beautifully. She soon came to 
the library to say, Good-night and, compre- 
hending at a glance that something was wrong, 
she was soon kneeling beside the couch, begging 
to know if “ poor papa was really ill, or any thing 
had occurred.” Mr. Erasure opened his eyes, 
drew her toward him, and assured her that he 
was not seriously ill, asked her if she had had a 
pleasant evening, and, having quieted her fears, 
kissed her good-night. 

Somewhat reassured, yet with a vague feeling 
2 


1 8 ANNETTA; 

of unrest and a dim foreboding of some coming 
event which was now casting its shadow before, 
Isabel ascended the broad, richly-carpeted stairs, 
and sought her own room. A very pleasant room, 
indeed, was that which she entered. Large and 
commodious, elegantly furnished, and boasting 
a profusion of ornaments and little knicknacks, 
which, though they may be called trifles in them- 
selves, perhaps, yet, taken together, always impart 
an air of taste and refinement. 

In a short time silence reigned throughout the 
house and grounds. The angel of repose brooded 
over all, bringing sweet rest upon his sheltering 
wings. Rest ? Ay, to Isabel and the other 
members of the household, to whom had come 
no sorrow ! But to Mr. Erasure came no rest. 
Through all the long hours of the night he 
planned and thought, and vainly strove to dis- 
cover some means by which he might extricate 
himself from the ruin which threatened him, 
and involved the happiness of those nearest and 
dearest to him. This was to him the keenest 
of all his sorrows, so tenderly was every loved 
one enshrined in his heart. 

Mrs. Erasure, feeling deeply every arrow which 
pierced that heart she knew was so truly de- 
voted to them, could not rest. With woman’s 
penetration, she readily divined that he was pass- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


19 


ing through no ordinary trial. She felt that the 
waves of a great sorrow were passing over him, 
and that he had long been concealing it from 
them. That he could no longer bear the burden 
alone, she was satisfied, and waited patiently for 
him to make her the sharer of his sorrows, as 
she had been of his joys. 




CHAPTER II. 

FEW years previous to the opening of 
our story, Mr. Erasure had stood upon 
the pinnacle of wealth and high social 
position, to which, from his very boyhood, he had 
aspired. To be a rich man, a man of note and 
influence, had been one of the chief aims of his 
life. That he possessed many noble traits of 
character, is true ; that he was by nature kind 
and generous, had been proven by many an 
action ; but the ruling power of his life, the one 
trait underlying and governing all others, had 
ever been ambition. When a boy at college, he 
had outstripped all in the race for knowledge; 
and in the days of early manhood he had entered 
upon the great field of active life with the de- 
termination of overcoming all its difficulties, and 
carving out for himself a name and a position 
among men. To him these words of the poet 
were full of deep, true feeling : 

“ In the world’s broad field of battle 
In the bivouac of life, 



20 


ANNETTA. 


21 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle ; 

Be a hero in the strife.” 

Fortune smiled upon his efforts, success crowned 
his labors, and in a few years, he, through his 
persevering energy and indomitable will, had at- 
tained that for which many have toiled a life-time, 
and was accordingly numbered with the wealthy, 
and looked upon as one of the most influential 
men of the city in which he resided. 

While still quite young, he married one in every 
way worthy the love of a true, manly heart, and 
the new life seemed very fair to both as together 
they stood upon its threshhold and looked out 
over the smooth, pleasant pathway which hope 
and youthful enthusiasm sketched in brilliant 
colors for them. No rugged places to be care- 
fully smoothed down by watchful, loving hands 
in that onward journey; no '‘Hill Difficulty” to 
climb, no “ Slough of Despond,” through which to 
grope their weary way. These, they fancied, had 
all been met and overcome, and now lay shrouded 
from sight in the dim distance, among “the things 
that were.” 

Mr. Erasure was one of those who think princi- 
pally of the things of this life only, forgetting that 
which is to come, or, if mindful at times of the 
great hereafter, looking upon it as something with 
which the present had nothing to do — a some- 


22 


ANNETTA ; 


thing belonging exclusively to that period of life 
when old age creeps on, weakening the tenacity 
of the grasp with which earthly things are held, 
enfeebling both mind and body, and reminding, 
by tottering steps and dimmed eyes, that the 
grave lies but a few rods further on. For him 
life’s greatest difficulty had consisted in gaining 
the summit upon which he now stood. It had 
indeed been a toilsome journey; for he was one 
of those who had wrought out his own path in 
life, having been dependent from boyhood upon 
himself. An orphan, alone and friendless, having 
conquered at last, what wonder that he looked 
back now complacently upon the past, feeling 
satisfied with himself for having accomplished so 
much, unaided and alone } What wonder if he 
looked forward with complacency, too, believing 
that the time had come when life would daily 
yield increase to his wealth, and enlarge his influ- 
ence, thereby adding new luster to his name, ren- 
dering his position yet more enviable and secure ? 

Mrs. Erasure had been raised in affluence. An 
only child, accustomed to a life of ease and lux- 
ury, never brought into contact with its stern 
realities, her girlish days had passed like a pleas- 
ant dream. Life’s sorrows were to her a myth — 
its pleasures and present joys the one topic with 
which she had become perfectly conversant. She 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


23 


was an amiable, lovable woman, possessed of 
gentle, womanly ways, and a kind heart full of 
tender emotions, with a chord of deep sympathy 
lying dormant beneath the many more prominent 
traits which were oftener called into action. Had 
the nobler sentiments of her nature been aroused 
and improved, a fund of inexhaustible hidden 
treasures would have been revealed. Like her 
husband, she considered her future as already 
secured and looked forward to a long and happy 
life to be spent by his side. A devoted wife and 
mother, an ornament to the society in which she 
moved, every want of her heart seemed satisfied. 
What more could be desired.^ By her family, 
perhaps nothing ; by her God, every thing ! 

Time passed on, and their home, where grand- 
eur, taste, and beauty each held sway, became 
the loved asylum of a happy family. Eugene, 
the eldest, was a noble boy, one whose actions 
soon gave evidence of right principles within. 
At the time of his introduction to our readers, 
he had just completed his studies, and had started 
on an extended tour through the Old World, in 
company with two of his college friends. He had 
long looked forward to the- trip with eager antic- 
ipations, feeling that it would prove one from 
which he should derive both pleasure and profit. 
Isabel had but just entered upon her seventeenth 


24 


ANNETTA; 


year, and was at this time receiving instruction 
at home, from competent teachers. She was a 
light-hearted, fair-haired young girl, full of life 
and gayety. Scarcely can we apply the term 
beautiful to her, nor yet the simple word pretty, 
since that does not embody all that we would 
say. Hers was a face which invited study. All 
its charms were not apparent to a mere casual 
observer. The features were not strictly regular, 
nor the complexion faultless. Painters would not 
receive inspiration by a single glance of her 
eye, nor would poets sing of her silken tresses, 
since neither was beyond criticism. Yet it was a 
pleasant face to look upon — one which inspired 
confidence and trust, and prompted the close 
observer to desire her friendship and esteem. 
The eyes are said to be an index of the heart, 
and in Isabel’s case the old saying seems to have 
been verified. The expression was so kind, lov- 
ing, so like herself in all things. In manner, she 
still possessed the artless simplicity of a child. 
And now, having summed up all her graces, we 
are almost inclined to conclude that, after all, she 
possessed some claim to the title of beautiful. 

Henry, the second son, a lad of about fourteen, 
was a bright, active boy, naturally quick and in- 
telligent, yet possessed of a willful disposition and 
violent temper, both of which were frequently 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


25 


manifested in the home circle to such a degree as 
to render him a source of sorrow and trouble to 
all. His parents frequently endeavored to check 
the growth of these unlovely traits, but met with 
little or no success. Mr. Erasure was too often 
absorbed wholly in his business affairs to bestow 
the time and watchful, judicious care upon him 
which such a disposition required. His wife, 
being a fond, indulgent mother — a trifle weak, 
perhaps — disliked what she called “a scene,” and 
preferred to yield a point rather than contest it. 
She was greatly inclined to give way to that feel- 
ing of motherly pride which prompted her to 
overlook his faults. He was such a lively, hand- 
some boy, so brave and manly in his deportment, 
when he chose to be, that Mrs. Erasure excused 
his shortcomings by saying : “ He will overcome 
them himself when a few more years have passed 
over his head. He is full of life, a little too wild 
and willful, perhaps; but he will make his mark 
in the world yet, and some day we may be as 
proud of him as of Eugene.” And last, but by 
no means least, in the estimation of her friends, 
comes the dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked household pet, 
Annetta. Seldom did she receive the benefit of 
her name, however ; for each member of the fam- 
ily seemed to have bestowed upon her some 
appellation, according to his .or her own fancy. 


26 


ANNETTA; 


She was, in turn, papa’s delight,” mamma’s 
darling,” and “Isabel’s pet.” As for the cogno- 
mens bestowed upon her by her brothers, they 
were numerous, and not unfrequently ludicrous, 
according to the whim of the moment. She 
answered alike to the titles of Dolly, Toddle, 
Rose-bud, May-blossom, and others. A pretty 
sprightly creature, with sweet, winning ways, she 
bound all hearts to hers with strong cords of love 
which could not be resisted. 

Mr. Erasure’s ambition was of such a nature as 
to incite him ever onward. One object accom- 
plished, another was at once undertaken. Had 
he lived in the days of Alexander, and been per- 
mitted to engage with him in the work of subju- 
gation to which the conqueror applied himself' he 
would doubtless have been ready to weep with 
him, also, when there were no more worlds to 
conquer. Anxious to increase the wealth which 
he already possessed, he began to hazard large 
sums, with the hope of their ultimate return to 
him, vastly increased. He engaged in specula- 
tions, and, for a time, met with great success. 
Encouraged by this state of affairs, he invested 
still more largely, confidently expecting each in- 
vestment to yield him immense profits. He was 
therefore amazed when the tide finally turned 
against him, and he was proclaimed the loser by 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 2/ 

many thousands. Not willing to be driven from 
the field while yet there was time for successful 
retreat, he sought to regain that which he had 
lost by a still more hazardous scheme, and met 
with a loss more disastrous than the first. With 
a determination to overcome even defeat itself, 
he, with his characteristic boldness, renewed the 
attack, and, quite losing sight of prudence and 
caution, staked all upon one desperate venture, 
the final result of which was financial ruin. 

The storm had long been gathering; clouds 
had gradually lowered and darkened around his 
home; but close within his own breast he had 
guarded the secret of his repeated failures, and 
the spirit of unrest took up its abode there, driv- 
ing out before it all the sweet peace and comfort 
which had once reigned supreme. To his wife 
he revealed no word of his troubles, hoping to 
retrieve his fallen fortunes before she should dis- 
cover how fearfully they were tottering upon their 
frail foundations ; and why, thought he, should I 
needlessly distress her .? But the crash had come, 
the die was cast, and nothing now was left but 
ruin, ruin! 

Unable to meet the family with his usual 
pleasant manner, he wandered, as we have seen, 
to the quiet, lonely retreat beside the river, where 
he might give vent, unseen and unheard, to the 


28 


ANNETTA; 


feelings pent within him. He beheld himself an 
old man now, less able than formerly to cope 
with life’s difficulties, yet compelled more truly 
than ever before to look its stern realities fully 
in the face. Turn where he would, ruin, utter 
ruin, stared upon him ! This new and formidable 
trial was indeed an overwhelming one, and the 
‘‘Hill Difficulty,” which stood out distinctly be- 
fore him, looked barren, bleak, and high. He 
felt that the power to climb it had now deserted 
him, though once he would have dauntlessly 
scaled its heights, regardless of discouragements. 
Into the “Slough of Despond” he felt that he 
had already stepped, and was momentarily sink- 
ing deeper and deeper, with no friendly hand out- 
stretched to save him. The stej5*s which would 
have led him safely on were all unheeded now, 
while the “wicket-gate” was a thing too small, 
too humble, to be perceived by him. 

To a man who has become immersed in his 
own pursuits to the exclusion of all else, there 
remains but little to which he can turn for com- 
fort when the storms of trouble finally gather, 
beating with merciless force upon his unpro- 
tected head. He vainly longs for a shelter there 
which shall be to him like “the shadow of a 
great rock in a weary land.” To render the 
position of Mr. Erasure yet more hopeless and 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


29 


embarrassing, he had used the means left to his 
wife by her father, having invested the entire 
sum with the same wild hope of gaining by this 
means treble the original amount. It was a bit- 
ter disappointment to awake and find that this 
also had drifted from his grasp. And now, how to 
reveal the true state of affairs to his wife, was to 
him a difficult problem. How could he tell her 
he had recklessly beggared the children who 
looked to him for protection and support ? How 
could he ask her to share his poverty, as she 
had shared his wealth, she who had been kept 
aloof from trials of every kind ? O, it was cruel, 
cruel ! And yet it must be done. Many, many 
times were the words upon his lips ; but as often 
did his courage fail, and they died away un- 
spoken. 

Ah, how often the poor, trembling heart of 
man shrinks back from the painful duties which 
throng about life’s highway, and how loath it is 
to inflict suffering upon those who are treading 
daily the same path with them, sharing the same 
joys, and looking forward to the same future, 
which to them, in their unconsciousness of com- 
ing sorrow, still wears the same bright hues with 
which hope and desire clothed it long ago! To 
Mr. Erasure the task was especially hard, since he 
could not but feel that a portion, at least, of his 


30 


ANNETTA. 


present troubles were of his own creating ; for 
had he not been reckless, imprudent, and blind ? 
He could not fail to perceive, now, that he had 
indeed been greatly at fault in thus allowing 
himself to be carried so far beyond the reach of 
all possible safety, cutting himself off from all 
hope of retreat before it was too late ; and now 
again and again did he ask himself the question, 
“ How could I have been so blind ?” 




CHAPTER HI. 



RIGHTLY the first rays of the morn- 
ing sun shone into the pleasant break- 
fast-room of the Clifton Mansion, as the 
large palatial residence of Mr. Erasure was styled. 
The silver-service upon the well-spread table re- 
flected his radiant touch, casting a similar bright- 
ness upon all surrounding objects. The flowers 
which bloomed in the deep bay-windows sent 
forth their richest fragrance, while the pet canary 
gayly sang his sweetest notes as he hopped from 
perch to perch, enjoying the sunshine with which 
his cage was flooded. Little Annetta’s kitten was 
playfully frisking about the room, endeavoring to 
catch within her snow-white paws the audacious 
flies which so often troubled her repose when 
curled up on the rug for a quiet nap. 

Mr. Erasure sat in his easy-chair, waiting for 
the family, who had been already summoned to 
breakfast. He sat, apparently engaged with his 
paper. Eut that the ordinary news of the day 

31 


32 


ANNETTA ; 


possessed but little interest for him was evident. 
His eye wandered from place to place ; he moved 
restlessly about, and his whole appearance was 
that of a man whose heart was disturbed by 
many conflicting emotions and mind ill at ease, 
yet endeavoring the while to keep all within 
bounds by assuming a cheerfulness which the 
poor, struggling heart was far from enjoying. 
He looked around the room, and sighed heavily 
as the thought, ‘‘No longer mine,” forced itself 
upon him. 

At this moment the door leading from the hall 
was opened, and Mrs. Erasure entered, with a 
languid step quite unnatural to her. With a 
look in which were strangely blended anxiety, 
trouble, and fears of, she knew not what, she 
approached her husband. He looked up, and 
attempted to smile in the old pleasant way ; but 
what a failure it was ! A look of pain crossed 
her face as she bent down, saying gently : 

“Arthur, will you tell me now.^” 

The tones, so like a woman’s when touched by 
love, pity, and strong desire to aid and cheer, 
fell upon the ear of the wretched man with a 
sweetness and power never before recognized in 
all the journey of life which they thus far had 
trodden together. Again, he looked upon the 
comforts and adornments of that pleasant room. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 33 

Again he thought of the luxury and ease which 
had sui;rounded her early life, before she had con- 
sented to share his own, and he thought: “And 
must I drag her down to a life of which she has 
no conception ; doom her to sorrows and priva- 
tions of which she has never dreamed ; condemn 
her to bear trials which will weigh her to the 
very earth ? O God, pity and help me now ! 
How shall I speak the words which shall bring 
all this upon her?” 

With a half-suppressed moan, he turned away ; 
and again she pressed the question, urging her 
right to share any sorrow, however great, which 
might have fallen to his lot. How little he knew 
the mighty strength of a fond woman’s love ! 
How faint were his conceptions of her power of 
endurance ! 

“ Tell me, Arthur ; let me help you, if I can,” 
she pleaded. 

“ Not now, Maria ; another time will do as 
well,” he answered, turning sadly away. 

“And must I, in the mean time, stand idly by, 
and see you suffer, Arthur?” And the gentle 
voice trembled with emotion ; the eyes grew 
dim, as they gazed through tears upon him ; and 
her lips quivered like those of a grieved child. 

“But, Maria,” he urged, “you can not under- 
stand these business matters ; they are intricate 
3 


34 


ANNETTA ; 


and perplexing in all their details. You have 
never bestowed any thought ' upon these mat- 
ters, and are wholly unused to it. And yet, 
Maria, I—” 

But the conversation was suddenly interrupted ; 
for the door was again thrown open, and the 
nurse entered with the little Annetta. Very 
lovely she looked, this bright morning, fresh from 
her bath ; with the rosy hue of health upon her 
soft ch€ek ; the light of happiness and merriment 
beaming from her eyes ; her childish face all 
smiles and dimples, as she sprang toward her 
father, and began to climb, a.s was her custom, 
upon his knee. Enticing her kitten to a place 
beside her, she succeeded, by her freaks with her 
pet, and her innocent talk to him, in beguiling a 
smile to his care-worn face, forcing him to reply 
to her as she wished. 

Isabel entered a moment later ; and soon 
Henry sauntered in ; and the circle being now 
complete, they gathered around the table. A 
feeling of unaccountable sadness and gloom 
seemed to pervade the circle. Conversation, 
usually so brisk and lively, appeared to flag. 
Topics were introduced, and dropped undis- 
cussed. Mr. Erasure sat in silence. His wife 
watched him furtively, as she tried to follow up 
the slight clew he had given her, in his reference 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 35 

to business matters. She knew so little of such 
things. It seemed now to be a subject quite be- 
yond her reach. That he could have become a 
bankrupt seemed quite out of the question. Such 
a thought in regard to a man of his wealth was not 
to be entertained for a moment. Still, she pon- 
dered the theme, till she became as abstracted in 
manner as he. ' Isabel looked from one to the 
other in a bewildered way, and, after a few inef- 
fectual attempts to draw them into conversation, 
relapsed into silence. Henry, with a boy’s love 
of mischief, amused himself by teasing " little 
May-blossom ; a sport in which he indulged to 
his heart’s content for once, since no one was 
so sufficiently attentive to his movements to re- 
prove him for worrying the child. 

“ Mother,” said Isabel, as they arose from the 
table, “ I forgot to tell you yesterday that Madame 
Allison sent me word she needed several addi- 
tional yards of lace, in order to finish my lilac 
silk handsomely ; and asks a yard or two more of 
that rich black satin, for yours. Shall I send her 
word this morning, to purchase them herself.?” 

“Yes, dear ; tell the madame to procure what- 
ever is needed, and have the bill sent in with the 
others, so that all may be settled at once.” 

“And mother,” continued Isabel, “Cousin Ma- 
bel told me last night that she and auntie are 


36 


ANNETTA; 


going to the city with us next week to select 
new carpets and curtains for their drawing-room. 
Do n’t you think ours needs replenishing too ? 
Those elegant lace curtains for sale at Gregg & 
Co.’s, throw ours quite into the shade.” 

“ Why, Isabel, dear, it is only a short time since 
ours were put up, and I am sure they are very 
beautiful.” 

“Yes, mamma,” replied the daughter, coax- 
in gly ; “ but not half as showy as those Ma- 
bel says they intend having ; they are perfect 
beauties !” 

“ Well, dear, we will see,” replied Mrs. Erasure, 
absently. Her e3^es met those of her husband 
as she spoke. Something in their expression 
startled her; and for the first time the idea that 
he really was in need of more ready money than 
he could command, began to assume definite 
shape in her mind. 

“ Possibly the rents have not been paid, in 
promptly,” thought she ; “ or he may have loaned 
a great deal, which has not been repaid ; but that 
need not trouble him so greatly, I ’m sure. How 
glad I am that, in case he does need money, I 
can help him. I shall have all that I possess 
placed at his disposal immediately.” And intent 
upon carrying her little project into execution, 
she followed him from the room to mention it to 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


37 


him at once. Before she reached him, however, 
a servant met him, and, handing him a card, in- 
formed him that a gentleman waited for him in 
the library. 

He glanced at the card, and, passing into the 
room, closed the door carefully behind him, leav- 
ing Mrs. Erasure standing alone in the hall. He 
had not heard her light step as she approached, 
nor was he at all awai*e of her presence near 
him ; but her quick fear did not fail to catch the 
deep-drawn sigh which fell from his lips, as he 
entered the room where he was to meet the 
visitor. Again she thought with pleasure of her 
power to aid him, in case he was in need of 
assistance ; and, ascending the stairs, she went 
to her room, to wait till he was alone, and an 
opportunity thus be given for telling him of her 
plan. 

An hour passed, and still they were closeted 
together. Once, she fancied her husband was 
pacing the floor, as was his custom when excited 
or disturbed. She thought she recognized the 
quick, impatient tread, habitual to him upon such 
occasions. The housekeeper came in just then 
for orders, and her mind was somewhat diverted 
for a time. Isabel, too, was chatting about a 
pleasure-party, to be gotten up for a trip a few 
miles up the river, to a little island, noted for the 


38 


ANNETTA ; 


beauty of its scenery and romantic situation. 
At last the outer door closed heavily, with a 
sound which rang through the house. Conclud- 
ing the visitor had departed, Mrs. Erasure hurried 
through with her directions, in order to go down 
before her husband should leave the house. 

Little Annetta threw aside the picture-book 
with which she had been amusing herself, and 
started as quickly as her little feet would carry 
her, to ‘‘ kiss papa good-bye.” Patter, patter, 
down the stairs, through the hall, they heard her 
going, calling, “ Papa, papa. Rosebud ’s coming !” 
The lisping accents won no response ; no strong, 
cheery voice was heard, answering as usual, 
“Here comes papa’s delight!” Wondering at 
the want of the customary welcome, the child 
timidly pushed open the door, and went in. 

A moment later, and Mrs. Erasure rushed 
down the stairs and through the hall, closely fol- 
lowed by both Isabel and the housekeeper; for 
from the study had the child’s cries and sobs, 
and wild cries of “Mamma! mamma!” resounded 
suddenly upon their ears, causing each to spring 
up in alarm and hasten to learn the cause. They 
entered the room, and there, upon the floor, lay 
Mr. Erasure, wholly unconscious, a little stream 
of blood trickling from a wound on the head, 
which evidently had struck upon the edge of a 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


39 


Statuette which lay shattered near by. Annetta 
was upon her knees beside him, covering his pale 
face with kisses, and sobbing bitterly because he 
did not speak to her. He was carried to his 
room, and a physician speedily summoned, who, 
upon examination, pronounced it a fainting-fit, 
produced by strong mental pressure, which per- 
fect rest and quiet would in a few days overcome. 

But day after day passed by, and the prostrate 
man grew no better. No word of recognition of 
wife or children crossed his lips. Not even the 
pitiful coaxing of his little May-blossom could 
elicit a response. Quietly he lay there in his 
darkened room, wrapped in a heavy stupor, from 
which it was impossible to arouse him, while be- 
side him the anxious watchers wept and prayed. 
There, too, did little Annetta take her place. 
Putting her tiny hand in his, she would stand 
by the hour on her little stool, patiently waiting 
for him to open his eyes ‘and speak to her. 

Very bitterly, now, did Mrs. Erasure regret 
that the secret of his great unhappiness had been 
withheld from her. Sadly she thought of the 
many hours he had undoubtedly spent in sorrows 
which she had not shared, nor even been per- 
mitted to lighten by her sympathy. Forgetting 
the present, she wandered far back to the glad 
time when she had stood by his side a happy 


40 


ANNETTA; 


bride. She remembered the thrill of pleasure 
with which she first heard him say, “My wife.” 
She traveled again, by memory’s aid, all the 
steps which J:hey had taken together, passed 
over all the paths of pleasure they had trodden 
in life; and ah, how many they were, how good 
God had been to them, how many blessings he 
had showered upon them! She came back now 
to the present again, and realized that, .after a 
wedded life of so many years, the first cloud had 
fallen between them, the first breath of the com- 
ing storrh. She felt this ; for any trouble beneath 
which the strong, energetic man would sink must 
be one which would not pass them gently by; 
and she sat beside him now, shivering with un- 
known dread, longing to see him open those eyes 
with the old look of kindness and trust, and tell 
her it had been but a feverish dream. 

Very silent and lone seemed the great house 
now, dark and dreary the unused rooms. The 
servants moved about with a muffled tread, speak- 
ing in whispers, glancing, in a sad, pitying man- 
ner, at each other, whenever any one of the once 
happy family appeared. The birds sang, undis- 
turbed, by the river-side; the vines clung yet 
more closely around the rustic steps down the 
cliff; for those whose feet had so often passed up 
and down came not now to enjoy the shadowy 


- OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 41 

coolness and quiet beauty of the beloved retreat. 
The little boat remained, day after day, fastened 
securely to her staple ; for there were no pleasant 
excursions now upon the water. Her young mis- 
tress had forgotten her in her trouble; for the 
great sorrow which now overwhelmed her ex- 
cluded all else from heart or mind. Her guitar 
lay mute in its box, its strings never swept by 
the skillful fingers that loved to awaken its sweet 
voice into strains of richest melody^ ✓ 

Even Rover, the great, shaggy dog, which for 
years had followed the master or the children 
wherever they went, now lay upon his mat, whin- 
ing piteously, as if joining in the grief of those 
who had ever been so kind and gentle to him. 
He was unnoticed now, and missed the caresses 
he had been accustomed to receiving. A shadow 
like that of the grave had settled over Clifton 
Mansion and the grounds; for the master lay 
hovering between life and death! 





CHAPTER IV. 


ELL, Eugene, whither shall we bend 
our steps to-day, and to what shall onr 
attention be first directed.^” and the 
speaker, a tall, noble-looking specimen of human- 
ity, threw himself into a chair, which he immedi- 
ately tifted back, in order to elevate his feet upon 
the back of another, placed in front of him for 
that express purpose, by which action he at once 
proclaimed himself an American, 

“Well,” answered the person addressed, who 
was no other than our young friend, Eugene Era- 
sure, “in answer to your first question, I believe 
the programme is not yet decided upon ; and in 
regard to your second, I would say, let our atten- 
tion be first directed to the good things with 
which the table yonder is groaning for our 
benefit.” 

“True, that is the first thing to be considered. 
But where is Howard?” 

“Coming! coming!” responded a cheerful voice 
from the hall, the owner of which soon made his 
42 



ANNETTA. 


43 


appearance, apologizing for being tardy; “for,” 
said he, “yesterday’s adventures quite tired me 
out, I must confess ; but this delightful morning 
finds me refreshed and ready for another round 
of sight-seeing.” 

The trio now proceeded to do justice to the 
breakfast prepared for them. How well they suc- 
ceeded, we will leave for the waiters to testify. 
In order to understand the scene just recorded, 
we must ask our readers tO' go with us to the 
city of London, which place Eugene Erasure and 
his friends had reached some days before. Hav- 
ing already visited many places of interest, they 
now debated, over their breakfast at the hotel, as 
to what should claim their attention during the 
remainder of their sojourn in London. It was 
finally decided that the party should take a look, 
first, at the famous St. Paul’s Cathedral; and 
accordingly, in the gayest of spirits, they turned 
their steps in that direction immediately after 
breakfast. Arriving at the principal entrance, 
they ascended the flight of steps leading to the 
portico above, with its twelve lofty pillars, which, 
together with the colossal figure of St. Paul, 
excited their warmest admiration. Entering the 
edifice, each was impressed with the size and 
grandeur of the place. The long range of col- 
umns and immense piers, the loftiness of the 


44 


ANNETTA; 


vaulting, and the many monuments of sculpture, 
all added their interest to the place. 

From St. Paul’s they proceeded to the Thames 
Tunnel, through which they walked, thinking, 
with singular sensations, of the ships sailing over 
their heads. The Colosseum in Regent’s Park 
and the Zoological Gardens next claimed their 
attention. An inspection of such a collection 
of animals from all parts of the known world 
occupied some hours. The National Gallery of 
Painting and Sculpture claimed its share of 
attention too ; for Eugene was an ardent ad- 
mirer of all works of art. On Sunday, they vis- 
ited Westminster Abbey, attending the morning 
service with feelings of mingled pleasure and 
interest. The afternoon was spent among the 
tombs, reading the various inscriptions, and mus- 
ing upon the life and character of many an illus- 
trious sleeper beneath. 

The following day was devoted to the curiosi- 
ties found in the British Museum ; “ for,” said 
they, “ such a vast collection of antiquities can 
not be examined with any kind of satisfaction in 
less time, since here are treasures of science and 
art which may well be ranked among the won- 
ders of the world.” The Houses of Parliament 
also received attention. The grand front of 
the buildings, with their beautiful displays of 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


45 


carvings, decorations, and elaborate designs, was 
greatly admired. Upon the interior they gazed 
with surprise and admiration. The carved roofs, 
the spacious senate-halls, the statues of sover- 
eigns and statesmen, fresco paintings and throne 
of the sovereign, each was for them an object 
abounding in interest. A view of Crystal Pal- 
ace could not be dispensed with, and accordingly, 
one bright morning, they started for Sydenham. 

Entering the world-renowned building, they 
were surrounded at once with objects on every 
hand calculated to awaken curiosity and capti- 
vate both mind and fancy. The day passed all 
too quickly away, and our tourists wished that 
several additional hours might have been added 
to its length. But as it was growing late, they 
took a stroll through the Sydenham Gardens, 
admiring the statues, fountains, curved walks, 
and general appearance ; after which, they re- 
turned by railway to London again. 

Next upon the programme came Scotland ; 
for our young travelers desired to include in 
their route the land of Scott, Wallace, and 
Burns. Accordingly, we find them next recon- 
noitering the old town of Newcastle. To Eu- 
gene it presented rather a dull, gloomy appear- 
ance, which may be partially accounted for by 
the stormy condition of the weather upon the 


46 


ANNETTA ; 


day of their arrival. Clouds, darkness, and rain 
do not aid in showing off any place to good 
advantage, especially such an one as Newcastle; 
for the houses, many of them really handsome 
buildings, are blackened by the smoke ever 
issuing from the coal factories for which the 
place is noted. From this point, they proceeded 
to Edinburgh, and looked with pleasure upon 
the attractions of which the city boasts ; among 
which, was the monument raised to the memory 
of Sir Walter Scott. Stepping on board a train 
bound for Melrose, they were soon gazing upon 
Melrose Abbey. 

Other places of interest were visited in turn, 
each bringing to mind some little incident or ro- 
mance of which this romantic land has been the 
scene. The Scottish scenery with which they 
were at times surrounded, repaid them for the 
trip, and they returned well satisfied to Edin- 
burgh. A hasty trip was made to Stirling Castle 
and Loch Lomond ; after which, they proceeded 
to Glasgow, returning at last to London by way 
of Carlisle, taking in upon the route Lancaster, 
Sheffield, Derbyshire, and other places, upon all 
of which our friends bestowed more or less at- 
tention, arriving at last once more in London. 

It had been the intention of our party to pro- 
ceed at once to France, going with as little delay 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


47 


as possible to Paris first, since that was the great 
center of attraction. Its superb and beautiful col- 
lections of art, both ancient and modern ; its 
salubrious climate ; palaces, cathedral, and boule- 
vards, — all conspired to act as a mighty mag- 
net, drawing our young friends hither. Eugene 
longed to gaze for himself upon the Cathedral of 
Notre Dame, the Hotel des Invalides, the Tri- 
umphal Arch, Palace of Luxembourg, and the 
Tuileries, with all other places of which he had 
so often heard and longed to behold. 

Upon arriving in London again, however, letters 
were found awaiting them, which had the effect of 
changing the course marked out. Learning that 
a party of friends were now in Germany, with 
whom they desired to travel, they at once de- 
cided to join them, proceeding afterward to 
Paris in their company. As the party in ques- 
tion were at the time in Hamburg, our tourists 
took passage across the North Sea, and were 
soon upon the waters of the beautiful River Elbe. 
They were deeply interested, and often amused, 
at the many scenes spread out before them, and 
certainly found no opportunity for complaints of 
monotony. The river was alive wi-th crafts of 
all sizes, kinds, and characters. Upon one hand 
might be seen large Government vessels; yon- 
der the merchantman ; here and there a yacht. 


48 


ANNETTA j 


bedecked with flags ; interspersed now and then 
with pleasure-boats, which looked like tiny shells 
when compared with the great steamers near by. 
Pretty villages and landscapes, captivating to 
those who, like Eugene, have an eye for the 
beautiful, were passed in turn ; and, after a de- 
lightful trip of some seventy miles, our party 
arrived at the city of Hamburg. Their first care 
was to find the- friends whom they wished to 
meet. This was soon accomplished, as the let- 
ters had named the hotel at which they were 
staying ; and here, too, Eugene and his compan- 
ions took up their abode for a few days. 

For Eugene the quaint old city abounded with 
interest. An inspection of its many noble build- 
ings aflbrded him great pleasure. From the top 
of St. Michael he enjoyed a magnificent view 
of the picturesque city and its suburbs. He 
found particular enjoyment in strolling through 
the walks bordered by grand old trees, espe- 
cially that portion near the Alster Basin, a kind 
of artificial lake, abounding with pleasure-boats 
filled with gay pleasure-seekers, all enjoying the 
strains of charming music, which the band dis- 
coursed on pleasant evenings. The ramparts 
which surrounded the city also possessed attrac- 
tions for him, so beautifully were they laid out 
in rare shrubbery and fragrant flowers, with 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


49 


winding walks, all carefully tended by competent 
gardeners. This spot always reminded Eugene 
of home and the beautiful garden there which 
he so dearly loved to picture now before him, 
through the aid of faithful memory. 

Their sojourn in Hamburg being ended, they 
proposed now to take up the line of march again 
for new and other scenes awaiting their atten- 
tion. One evening, quite weary with the adven- 
tures of the day, they sought rest at an early 
hour, in order to be in readiness for a new start 
the following morning. Eugene’s slumbers that 
night were broken and unrefreshing. Thoughts 
of home filled heart and mind, and in fancy he 
visited every spot about the dear old place. His 
father’s voice seemed sounding upon his ear, and 
his mother’s smile rose plainly before him. Isa- 
bel’s ringing laugh seemed resounding from the 
cliff to the sloping bank below. Henry’s cordial 
grasp was felt anew, while dear little Annetta’s 
clinging arms appeared to be ever about his neck. 
Rousing from this half-waking dream for a mo- 
ment, he slept again, and the scene of his travels 
arrayed themselves before him. One moment he 
appeared to be gazing upon the crown jewels in 
the Tower of London, and the next, on the point 
of throwing himself from London Bridge into the 
waters beneath. Not until the bright sun was 
4 


50 


ANNETTA ; 


Streaming into his room, illuming and beautify- 
ing all with magical touch, did he sink into deep 
slumber. 

His companions, wondering at his delay in join- 
ing them at breakfast, at length found it neces- 
sary to arouse him, lest the hour for their de- 
parture should pass before their preparations 
were completed. Laughingly they chicled him 
for indulging in protracted dreams upon such an 
occasion. In the midst of their preparations for 
departure, a letter was handed to Eugene. 

“O!” exclaimed he, “a letter from home; how 
fortunate !” And, with a quick, eager movement, 
he broke the seal, while his companions softly 
sang that sweet old song : 

“ Good news from home, good news for me, 

Has come across the deep blue sea.” 

Eugene read a few sentences, then, turning 
pale, sank into the nearest chair, while his 
friends, feeling the inappropriateness of the song 
upon their lips, paused abruptly, watching him 
in silence as he read on. The package contained 
two letters, one from his father’s lawyer, setting 
forth the true condition of his father’s business 
affairs, containing, also, news of his illness, and 
advising his immediate return. The other was 
from his grief-stricken mother. It contained but 
a few lines, evidently written with a trembling 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


51 


hand. She implored him to come to her, begging 
him to hasten, if he would. see his father alive. 
Half stunned by the unexpected shock, Eugene 
sat like one bewildered, the open letters lying at 
his feet, having dropped unheeded from his re- 
laxed grasp. A glass of water, a few words of 
earnest sympathy and kind offers of assistance 
from his friends, recalled his wandering senses, 
and in a short time he was able to explain to 
them that he must retrace his steps and take 
passage for home as speedily as possible. Know- 
ing and appreciating Eugene’s strong affection 
for his parents, they understood and respected 
the feelings which now overwhelmed him, and 
at once took the necessary steps for a speedy 
return, relieving Eugene from all care and anx- 
iety upon the subject. 

With as little delay as possible the prepara- 
tions were completed, and our party “ homeward 
bound for such was the attachment existing 
between Eugene and his two long-tried friends, 
that they refused -to leave him, though he en- 
treated them to continue their travels without 
him, assuring them that it would trouble him 
greatly to feel that his own summons home 
should be the means of bringing their trip to 
a sudden termination. Nothing, however,_could 
induce them to proceed without his company. 


52 


ANNETTA ; 


They assured him that the prospective journey 
had lost its attractions for them, and expressed 
their own desire to see the father of their friend 
while he still lived. 

Long and tedious seemed that homeward jour- 
ney to Eugene ; wearily passed the hours he so 
impatiently counted ; and, when at last fairly 
launched upon the broad Atlantic, night after 
night was spent in weary vigils upon the deck. 
The close confinement of his little room seemed 
to stifle him. A feeling of unrest took posses- 
sion of him, and upon the deck alone could he 
find even a semblance of peace. Like his father, 
excitement of any kind prompted action. He 
could not remain quiet ; but, like him, paced to 
and fro, until a looker-on would wonder that tired 
nature did not give way. 

With a feeling of intense relief, he heard the 
cry of land. With a prayer of thankfulness, he 
stepped on shore at last, his heart burdened by 
conflicting emotions of hope and fear. With all 
his attainments in knowledge, Eugene had not 
neglected that which is above and beyond all 
else. He had learned to trust in Him who 
“ doeth all things well and now, with a silent, 
fervent prayer for those he loved, together with 
a plea for strength from above, he turned from 
the confusing scenes around him, and, mingling 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 53 

with the passengers who had disembarked, he 
proceeded upon his way. 

Upon every hand friends were meeting with 
friends. Joyous greetings were exchanged all 
around him. Here and there a solitary pas- 
senger left the steamer and proceeded on alone 
like himself But such instances were few ; 
and soon he, too, felt the cordial grasp of a 
friendly hand ; for upon the pier he was met by 
Mr. Reed, the lawyer, from whom he had re- 
ceived the intelligence which brought him home. 
Knowing that Eugene would take passage upon 
the first steamer homeward bound, he had has- 
tened to the pier to be the first to greet him 
upon his return, and to impart to him the latest 
news concerning his father. 

Eugene was gratified beyond the power of 
expression to learn that death still stood aloof, 
and even seemed about to release from his grasp 
the victim he had so nearly claimed as his own ; 
and again within his heart arose a feeling of grat- 
itude to Him who had been so merciful and kind, 
and, with that earnestness so characteristic of 
him, he exclaimed, “ Help me, O my God, to ren- 
der all praise and thankfulness to thee !” With- 
out pausing to rest, though urged by Mr. Reed 
to do so, he proceeded at once on his journey, 
having a distance of eight or ten miles yet to 


54 


ANNETTA; 


travel before he should be indeed at home with 
those he was so anxious to see again. Alone 
and sad, yet striving to call up within his heart 
a feeling of hopefulness and cheer, he passed over 
the lonely road intervening between the city and 
Clifton Place. At last the desired haven was 
reached, and he turned from the main road into 
the old, well-worn private carriage-way leading to 
the house, which soon appeared in sight. At the 
time of his arrival, the place was wrapped in dark- 
ness; for it was midnight. From the window of 
his father’s room, however, he soon perceived a 
faint light shining forth, which seemed like a ray 
of hope to the weary, worn traveler. 

Not wishing to disturb any who might be 
slumbering within, he dismounted at the gate. 
Fastening his horse to a tree, at some distance 
from the house, he quietly walked up the grav- 
eled path, debating within himself as to the best 
method of gaining admission. Finally conclud- 
ing to awaken the gardener, he turned toward 
the rear of the house, when, to his surprise, the 
front door was noiselessly opened, and Isabel ran 
lightly down the steps to meet him. Very pre- 
cious to him was this sweet welcome home, from 
the sister he so truly loved. Every night, for 
nearly a week, had she watched and waited and 
listened for his coming, though repeatedly assured 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


55 


that he could not possibly arrive so soon, consid- 
ering the distance ; and now, as he stood there, 
holding her in a close embrace, she felt repaid 
for the vigils she had kept, even though they had 
been useless until now. A few whispered words 
concerning the improvement of their father, with 
tidings of all the rest of the household band, and 
then, with a calmer heart than he had known for 
' weeks, he followed Isabel into the house. She 
led him to the dining-room first, insisting upon 
his taking some refreshment after his journey, 
and assuring him it would be best to defer seeing 
the invalid till morning, as he was now sleeping 
quietly. 

But a few moments had passed, when Eugene 
started suddenly from his seat. His quick ear 
had caught the sound of a well-known step upon 
the stairs, and, in an ecstacy of delight, he sprang 
forward to meet his mother. The voice of her 
boy, low and guarded though it was, had roused 
her from the light slumber into which she had 
fallen while reclining upon the lounge, where, 
night after night, she took her place, ready to 
respond, at any moment, to a call from the inva- 
lid. She looked weary and dispirited, and much 
older than when Eugene had left her, but six 
months before. He was shocked at the change 
in her appearance, while she, in turn, was grieved 


56 


ANNETTA; 


to see her bright boy look so worn and troubled. 
He had traveled so continually, allowing himself 
so little rest, that nature had resented it by 
drawing great dark lines about the heavy eyes, 
stealing from his cheek its hue of robust health, 
and robbing the step of its buoyancy. Isabel 
sought to comfort and cheer them both, and 
ended by insisting that they should at once bid 
each other good-night, and seek a little rest, at 
least, before morning should again be ushered in. 
Her advice was taken at last. An affectionate 
good-night was exchanged, and Mrs. Erasure re- 
turned to her room and took her place upon the 
lounge, having first ascertained that her husband 
was still asleep. An uneasy feeling of dread 
arose in her heart as she did so ; for the hands 
of her patient seemed so hot and dry, and upon 
his cheek the signs of burning fever appeared; 
yet he seemed quiet, and she hoped it would 
pass, and the morning find him better. She 
could not sleep again, but lay there, watching 
him with anxious eyes. 

Eugene went to his own room, which had 
been made ready for his coming, brightened and 
beautified by the flowers he loved, gathered 
and placed there by the thoughtful Isabel, as- 
sisted by Annetta, who fancied that her little 
hands were aiding vastly in the work of “making 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


57 


all pretty for brother.” Utterly worn out, he was 
soon sleeping soundly; for a feeling of compara- 
tive rest had come over him since his return. 
The burden of anxiety and suspense had been 
partially removed now; and, after once again 
commending them all to the watchful care of 
Him who never sleeps nor ceases to care for his 
children, he sank into a deep, refreshing sleep. 
No feverish dreams assailed him now; no tor- 
menting fears aroused him into weary wakeful- 
ness. Calmly as an infant in its mother’s arms, 
he slept, watched, we doubt not, by the angels 
that we are told minister to those who shall be 
heirs of salvation. Isabel, too, repaired to her 
pleasant room, and soon Clifton Place was dark 
and silent again. Would that it might have so 
remained till the morning’s sun should rouse all 
nature into renewed life and activity! 



CHAPTER V. 



N the following morning, Eugene arose 
early ; and, before any of the family 
were astir, he had visited all his favorite 
haunts, remaining longest at the chosen retreat 
beside the river. He seated himself at the foot . 
of a grand old tree, and looked sadly out over 
the waters, flowing so calmly and beautifully on- 
ward, ever onward! As he looked, a steamer 
appeared in sight, large and powerful. She pre- 
sented a noble appearance as, like a creature 
of life, she plowed her way through the water. 
Here and there a little skifl* appeared directly in 
her path, but in a moment was rowed hastily 
aside, leaving for her a clear, free passage. She 
passed on, and the water, which had previously 
flowed so calmly and gently onward, now came 
surging in foam-crested waves to the shore, 
breaking upon its rocky surface, sending its 
scattered drops in tiny sprays hither and yon. 
But soon the vessel disappeared from sight, the 
disturbed waters gradually regained their quie- 
S8 







ANNETTA. 


59 


tilde, the waves surged more slowly, subsiding 
ere they reached the shore. The little skiffs 
again sought the current, and the same quiet 
beauty pervaded the scene as when Eugene first 
beheld it that morning. 

“ How much does such a scene remind one of 
life!” thought he. “How often, over its calmness 
and prosperity, comes some great — perhaps un- 
foreseen — event, which, sweeping all before it, 
sends the great waves of sorrow surging madly 
over the heart, disturbing its peace, destroying 
its rest I The little cares and perplexities inci- 
dent to every-day life fade into nothingness be- 
fore the one trial which, in its onward course, 
overwhelms and overturns all else. The trial, 
once bravely met and overcome, however, will 
eventually pass on like yonder vessel; and fhe 
heart, if supported and sustained by the grace 
of an ever- watchful, loving Father, will regain 
its peace. Yes,” continued Eugene, “God never 
sends an angel to afflict a soul, but another fol- 
lows in its footsteps to cheer and to bless.” Sit- 
ting there alone, he, too, reviewed the past. He 
thought how prosperity, wealth, and honor had 
ever followed his father, how complete and un- 
broken had been the family circle, and how 
strong and enduring every link in the strong 
chain of love which bound their hearts together. 


6o 


ANNETTA; 


“God has been good to us,” said he. “Every 
step in life has been marked by some special 
care and act of loving kindness.” He felt that 
he indeed might echo the words, “His loving 
kindness, O how great!” “And now,” continued 
he, “what are we, that we should murmur, if, 
over the smooth current of our life, an opposing 
element should come.^ Will he not help us to 
bear it.? Will he not give us strength to con- 
quer at last, though we see our dearest hopes 
shattered and broken like the spray, which, seen 
for a moment, rises and falls, and finally is lost 
amid the waves which receive it.? And yet how 
weak and unstable is poor human nature! How 
prone we are to stumble and fall with the first 
adverse wind which passes over us ! But,” con- 
tinued he, rising and pacing slowly to and fro, 
“to moralize is one thing; to act is another. 
Neither will answer alone. My part is to com- 
bine both. Let me but understand these mat- 
ters as they really are; let me but set them 
clearly before me, understanding the nature of 
each difficulty ; then I am ready to do any thing, 
every thing in my power, toward restoring to its 
calmness this life of ours, which seems so sadly 
ruffled now. My dear father’s health shall be 
my first consideration ; then the condition of his 
business affairs must be closely investigated and 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 6 1 

fully understood. Possibly, upon close examina- 
tion, they will prove to be in a less deplorable 
state than has been supposed. Much will depend 
upon me now. O, may God help me to discharge 
every duty faithfully, and to be a blessing to my 
afflicted parents! In all that I do, may I be 
directed and guided by power from on highT’ 
And there, at the foot of the old tree, with the 
birds singing over his head and the rippling 
waters making sweet music at his feet, Eugene 
kneeled in earnest prayer to God, imploring for 
himself wisdom to act, strength to overcome; 
and for those he loved, power to endure, though 
the heart suffers keenly while it murmurs, “ Even 
so. Father, for so it seemed good in thy sight.” 
For his father he asked renewed health; or, if 
that be not the will of his Creator, then a 
humble submission to even this dispensation of 
Divine providence. 

Strengthened and comforted, he arose and 
turned his steps in the direction of home. As 
he reached the cliff and turned into the path 
leading to the house, his eyes bent, in deep 
thought, upon the ground, a sweet, childish voice 
called his name. Looking up, he saw a little, 
white-robed figure hastening down the path to 
meet him. “My darling!” exclaimed he, extend- 
ing both arms toward the child. With a cry of 


62 


ANNETTA ; 


joy, she sprang forward. He caught her, and 
pressed her closely to his great, loving heart, 
while the little arms wound themselves around 
his neck, and the rosy mouth was held tempt- 
ingly up for a brother’s kiss. Pushing back the 
hair which clustered in soft curls around her 
brow, he looked smilingly into the dark eyes, 
gazing now into his with an expression of delight 
at seeing him again. 

'‘How beautiful the picture,” said Isabel, as, 
from the piazza, she caught a view of the touch- 
ing scene. 

“So glad, so glad, dear, dear brother!” cried 
the child, between her kisses, with a look of such 
perfect joy that Eugene could not repress a sigh 
as he thought of the future. 

“O, would that her life might be ever as bright 
and unclouded as at this moment I” he murmured. 
“Every act of mine shall strive to make it so. 
All that a brother can be, I will be to them 
both,” he added, as his eye caught sight of Isa- 
bel, waiting for them, 

“You are looking pale this morning, dear 
sister,” said he, as, with Annetta still in his 
arms, he joined her on the piazza. “How is 
father.?” 

“Not so well,” answered she. “He was very 
ill and restless all night.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 63 

*‘And you had no rest, then, after you sent me 
to my room 

“Very little, Eugene?” 

“Were you with him the remainder of the 
night, Isabel ?” 

“ Yes !” 

“And mother, too?” 

“Yes, Eugene; we could not leave him a mo- 
ment. There are times when he requires all our 
care.” 

“ Why did you not let me share that care, 
Isabel ? My place should have been beside you 
during all the hours you spent watching there. 
Why did you not call me ?” 

“It would not have been best, Eugene. You 
are worn out already. Your homeward journey 
tells upon you still,” said she, noticing the dark 
lines about his eyes. 

“And you are weary, too, Isabel ; and our 
mother — it grieves me sadly to find her so 
changed.” 

“We are all changed, dear brother; and oiir 
poor father more* than all,” exclaimed Isabel, 
bursting suddenly into tears ; and, leaning for sup- 
port against the vine-covered pillar, she sobbed 
bitterly, as if her tears, long pent up within her 
own breast, had burst their bounds at last, and 
refused to be held longer in subjection. 


64 


ANNETTA; 


Eugene turned pale. With a feeling of dread 
struggling within him, he tried to soothe into 
comparative calmness her poor tried heart. Sud- 
denly a tear dropped upon his forehead ; and, look- 
ing up at the child in his arms, to his great sur- 
prise he saw that the look of brightness and joy 
which had so delighted him but a moment ago, 
had vanished. The rosy lips were quivering now, 
a grieved expression had settled over the sweet 
young face, and the large dark eyes were look- 
ing through tears into his. 

“O, this is hard!” cried he. “Hard, indeed, 
to see every trace of brightness fade from the 
face of one so young.” Well did he know, now, 
that the heart was already growing older than 
her years should warrant. Sad was it to realize 
that over her had come, thus early, a knowledge 
of life’s miseries. Silently they stood till each 
had regained some degree of composure, then 
turned to enter the house. 

“ Can I see father now, Isabel ?” asked he. 

“ Not yet,” she answered. “Re patient for a little 
while,” she added, trying to smile through her tears. 

“ Does he not know that I have come, Isabel ? 
Has he expressed no desire to see me yet ?” 
questioned Eugene. 

Isabel’s eyes dropped beneath his gaze, and the 
tears threatened to flow again, freely as before. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 6 $ 

He has not asked for you this morning,” said 
she, evasively. 

“Papa don’t understand,” whispered Annetta, 
bending her little mouth close to his ear. 

Eugene looked up with a bewildered expres- 
sion, as, in a tone of surprise, he said : “ Why, 

pet, brother do n’t understand now ; what is it 
you mean 

“ Why, when papa is very, very sick, you know, 
sometimes he don’t know any body, not even 
mamma ; and this morning he did n’t speak to his 
little Nettie at all.” And a look of unutterable 
sadness crept into her eyes as she spoke, and the 
quivering lips gave token of the pain which the 
circumstance had given to her affectionate heart. 

Eugene passed his hand caressingly over the 
little head which had dropped upon his shoul- 
der. He turned again to his elder sister, say- 
ing : “ Isabel, tell me, truly and freely, is there 

no hope for our father.? Is he in danger.? I 
thought he was improving, and looked forward 
to a glad meeting with him this morning. Will 
he not recognize his returning son .?” 

She did not answer, but, turning to Annetta, 
said: “Nettie, darling, see if mamma needs me 
now.” 

Eugene released her ; and, with a quick, noise- 
less step, she ascended the stairs. As she dis- 
5 


66 


ANNETTA ; 


appeared from the landing above, Isabel passed 
into the library, motioning Eugene to follow her. 
Closing the door, she seated herself upon a low 
ottoman, and covered her face with her hands, 
remaining for some moments as if wholly obliv- 
ious to her surroundings. Eugene sank into a 
chair near by. Oppressed by a dread of, he 
knew not what, he waited in silence for his 
sister to speak. 

‘‘Eugene,” said she, in a low voice, at last, 
“ mother desired me to tell you ; for she can not, 
poor mamma !” The voice quivered and broke 
down, her head dropped upon her hands again, 
and low sobs surged up from her burdened heart. 
Eugene left his seat, and, hastily crossing the 
room, sat down beside her. Drawing her head 
to his shoulder, he smoothed back the hair from 
her white forehead gently, as a mother would 
soothe a weary child. In a short time she re- 
covered herself, and in a trembling voice said : 
“ Eugene, I have a hard task before me. Forgive 
my weakness ; but it is a difficult thing to tell 
you that we fear our dear father may never 
again recognize any of us. It is hard, indeed, 
to say to you that it is possible he may never 
speak a word of welcome to his returning son, 
whom he has so long and so sadly missed.” 

With terrible force did the blow fall upon the 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


67 


heart of Eugene. He sat like one suddenly be- 
reft of the power of speech or motion. So silent 
was he, that Isabel, thoroughly alarmed, disen- 
gaged herself from his clasp, and looked in ter- 
ror upon his pale face. She arose, and sprang 
in haste toward the door to call for help, fear- 
ing he would fall ; but, with an effort, he motioned 
her to return. It was long before he was able 
to conquer his emotion sufficiently to ask for, 
and receive, a full account of his father’s condi- 
tion. Isabel told him then how he had gradu- 
ally changed from the pleasant, communicative, 
ever-cheerful husband and father to the silent, 
restless, and not unfrequently impatient man ; 
how he had often been detained for days to- 
gether in the city with business cares ; and how 
he wandered alone about the grounds for hours 
when at home. She related how his lawyer had 
come, one morning, in great haste to the house, 
and how they found their father in a fainting fit 
after his departure. 

“He was ill a long time with brain-fever,” 
said she, “and we did not know, at first, where 
to send for you. Your last letter was delayed, 
and we only knew you had left England ; but 
for what point we could not tell. By the time 
we learned your whereabouts, we feared poor 
papa’s days were numbered. But soon after, he 


68 


ANNETTA ; 


rallied again, reason returned, and he grew rap- 
idly better. He learned, then, that we were 
looking for you, and seemed to long constantly 
for you. We counted the days, even hours, so 
anxious were we for your coming. Even in his 
sleep, poor papa would call ‘ Eugene and the 
moment he awoke the first question was : ‘ Has 
he come ^ Will he not be here soon ?’ ‘ Eugene, 
my son,’ seemed ever in his heart and on his 
lips. The day before you came, Mr. Reed was 
here and assured him he might safely look for 
you within two days. After that, he became 
very restless, and his mind wandered at times. 
Just at dark, last night, he asked again if Eu- 
gene had come, saying he thought he heard 
the well-known voice. Soon after, he wandered 
again, and talked of ruin and beggary most piti- 
fully ; but afterward grew calm, and said, ‘ Surely, 
Eugene will come to-morrow.’ We told him we 
were quite sure of it. He smiled as if satisfied, 
and at midnight fell asleep. We were in hopes 
he would rest quietly, and be able to rejoice 
with us this morning over your return. But O, 
Eugene, such a night ! It was terrible.” And 
poor Isabel shivered, as if in the midst of fear- 
ful peril. In a moment, she went on in an un- 
natural, despairing tone, which fell like a funeral- 
knell upon the heart of her listener. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 69 

** Soon after you went to your room, mother 
came hurriedly to me, and bade me rouse Henry 
and send him with all speed for the doctor. 
Trembling, I obeyed ; and when I had seen him 
started on the errand, I joined mamma in her 
watch. Papa did not know us. Reason seemed 
quite gone, and he raved so violently at times 
we could scarcely restrain him from leaping from 
his bed. Several times we feared we would be 
under the necessity of calling you to our assist- 
ance ; but dreaded to do so, for you were so un- 
prepared to see our father in such a state. Doc- 
tor Grey soon came, and remained till daylight. 
As papa was sleeping from exhaustion then, he 
left, promising to return in a few hours, bringing 
with him a consulting physician. He has been 
awake since, but only looks at us with a vacant 
stare, not even noticing little Nettie — poor dar- 
ling — and that almost breaks her heart. It has 
been one of her greatest pleasures to sit on the 
bed and talk to him, when he felt better; or to 
stand on her little stool beside him, waiting pa- 
tiently for him to notice her. He seemed to 
love to have her near him, and missed her the 
moment she left her position. She has given up 
all her playthings, pictures, books — in short, every 
thing, even her rambles about the place — for the 
sake of interesting papa. In action, she seems to 


70 


ANNETT4 ; 


have become like a child of twelve, at least She 
notices every thing concerning papa so quickly, 
that I sent her away, just now, not wishing her 
to hear all that I have told you, knowing so well 
how the recital would call into action all the 
sympathetic emotions of her tender heart. It 
grieves our mother to see the child lose the 
freshness and vivacity so natural to her ; and yet, 
after all, no one is so changed as poor mamma 
herself” And a heavy, long-drawn sigh followed 
the sentence, as her mother’s pale, anxious face, 
with its weary, despairing expression, her languid 
step and attenuated form, came vividly before her. 

Deeply did Eugene regret that he had not ar- 
rived a few days sooner, while his father longed 
for his presence. “ O,” said he, how precious a 
welcoming word from him would have been !” 

“Yes, dear brother, I know it; and yet, since 
you traveled with all possible speed, do not re- 
proach yourself for one moment. It could not 
have been otherwise. Let us now hope for the 
best, yet be prepared for the worst.” • 

“ Has Doctor Grey expressed any decided opin- 
as to the cause of this illness?” asked Eugene. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “He says it is the 
result of long-protracted mental suffering, in con- 
sequence of heavy losses in business. Lawyer 
Reed has already told us that his business affairs 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 7 1 

are in a bad condition. But what is that, com- 
pared with the one great loss we are almost daily 
dreading now.?” 

“True: nothing can equal that. But, Isabel, I 
must see him.” 

“Wait here till I speak to mamma. She 
wanted you to know this before you went to his 
room.” And Isabel passed out into the hall, and 
went up to the chamber of illness and grief, 

Mrs. Brasure sat at the head of the bed, gazing, 
with a look of despair, upon the face of her hus- 
band. That night of more than usual suffering 
had left its mark upon them both. Annetta 
stood upon a stool beside the bed, waiting for 
him to wake up and speak to her. 

“Mamma,” she whispered, “see! Isn’t he 
waking now.? Do help me up. I know he will 
want me there.” And the child was lifted to her 
accustomed place upon the side of the bed. 

Isabel came quietly in, and approached her 
mother, saying, as she bent over her: 

“Mamma, may Eugene come now.? I have 
told him.” 

Mrs. Brasure raised her head, and looked anx- 
iously at her daughter. 

“My poor boy!” said she. “How does he 
bear it.?” 

“Nobly,” said Isabel. 


72 


ANNETTA ; 


“My own brave Eugene! Thank God I have 
such an arm still to lean upon! Let him come 
up, Isabel. But have you told him to expect 
this change.^” and she pointed to the thin hand 
and pallid face of the beloved invalid. 

“Yes, I have told him all; but O, mamma, it 
was such a task, my strength almost failed me ! 
Only the thought of yourself enabled me to go 
through with it. Indeed, it was a struggle even 
then.” 

“ I know it, my daughter. But it is over now ; 
and Eugene’s bravery and nobleness of heart and 
mind will help to strengthen us, I am sure. But 
let him come now, Isabel.” 

A few words to Eugene, in the library, of addi- 
tional preparation, and then she led him up to 
look upon the face of the father, who, but a few 
days before, had yearned so unceasingly for the 
presence of his son. His mother met him at the 
door, a look of intense anxiety upon her face. 

“My poor boy,” said she, “this is a sad coming 
home for you. Would that it might have been a 
happier one!” 

“God has willed it so, dear mother,” said he, 
gently. “Let us not rebel. He will help us to 
bear it, if we will but trust him.” 

With tearful eyes, she looked at him, wonder- 
ing at his strength, while she was so weak and 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


73 


helpless. With a noiseless step, he crossed the 
room, and stood beside his father. They had 
told him he was changed ; but such a change as 
this, Eugene was not prepared to see. It re- 
quired all the fortitude he could summon, to bear 
it as bravely as he wished, for the sake of those 
who depended now upon him alone for strength 
and comfort. It was pitiful to see the man, once 
so strong and robust, lying helpless as a child, 
weak, emaciated, and pallid ; but far more pitiful 
was it to meet the vacant gaze of the sunken 
eyes which opened upon him as he stood there. 
Mastering his own feelings, Eugene sought, by 
every means in his power, to awaken within those 
orbs some sign of intelligence; but in vain. No 
expression of recognition crossed his features ; 
and soon he turned away and slept again. 

During the morning. Dr. Grey came in, accom- 
panied by another physician. After a careful 
review of the case, and lengthy consultation in 
an adjoining room, each gave it as his opinion 
that Mr. Erasure would never fully recover. He 
might rally for a time ; but the strength and vigor 
of both mind and body were hopelessly gone; 
and his final release from suffering would, in all 
probability, be but a question of time. 

A bitter hour was that to the afflicted family. 
Mrs. Erasure and Isabel wept in each other’s 


74 


ANNETTA; 


arms. Henry buried his face in his hands, and 
sat motionless; while Eugene, clasping the sob- 
bing Annetta in a close embrace, kneeled in that 
chamber of gloom, and prayed that God, in his 
infinite goodness and mercy, would comfort them 
in this trying sorrow. 

In a few days, Mr. Reed, the lawyer, came, and 
was closeted several hours with Eugene. The 
day following, Eugene went to the city, where 
the entire day was spent among his father’s 
books and papers. In the evening, he returned 
home, and watched all night beside his father, 
going to the city again early the next morning. 
This was kept up day after day, his mother and 
sister wondering greatly at his remarkable power 
of endurance, sighing sadly when he would not 
take time to rest. So anxious was he that noth- 
ing should be left undone for the promotion of 
his father’s health, and nothing omitted in his 
efforts to save a remnant, at least, of the fortune 
he had once possessed, that to no other hands 
would he delegate the tasks he had taken upon 
himself 

At times there were signs of improvement in 
the invalid. He would rally, occasionally, for a 
short time, and speak naturally. Sometimes it 
would be but a word or two, often only a call 
upon a familiar name, and a smile of recognition 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


75 


when the delighted hearer stood beside him. 
Little Annetta still sat upon the bed, or stood 
by it, on her stool, waiting and watching, beside 
herself with joy if he but held out his hand and 
murmured, “Papa’s delight,” or “My little Net- 
tie.” Several times he called for Eugene, when 
he was in the city; but by the time he came 
home he was either sleeping or unconscious of 
his presence. This was a sore trial to Eugene, 
who longed for a word or glance of recognition; 
and thus far the coveted boon had been denied 
him. Upon learning, one evening, that his father 
had asked for him several times during the day, 
he decided to remain at home the day following, 
hoping that he would again be able to speak, if 
he was near him ; but he was doomed to disap- 
pointment. His father was feverish, restless, and 
in an unsettled state of mind all day, noticing no 
one around him. The next day, a note from Mr. 
Reed summoned him again to the city, on busi- 
ness of importance ; and, with a heavy heart, he 
left home, yearning continually to hear his father’s 
voice. After a day of care, perplexity, and trials 
innumerable, it seemed, he again reached home, 
quite late in the evening. Annetta met him at 
the gate. 

“ Why, Rosebud,” said he, “ what brings you 
here ? It is late, and the dew is falling.” 


76 


ANNETTA ; 


I know, I know,” answered she ; but O, 
brother, I wanted you to come, O so bad ; and I 
came way down here just to see if I could n’t 
see you coming over the hill there.”. 

Eugene stooped down, and, gently raising the 
light figure, placed her on the horse before him, 
holding her with one hand and the reins in the 
other. With eyes shining with a look of joy, she 
looked up at him, smiling. 

“You are the bearer of good news, darling, I 
am sure,” said Eugene. “ What is it ? I am 
eager to know. And tell me, too, why you 
were so anxious for me to come .?” 

“ O ! ” cried she, clasping her hands in de- 
light, “papa is better, and keeps asking for 
you. Mamma told him you would come in a few 
moments ; and he begged her not to let him go 
to sleep again till he had seen you. I knew you 
wanted him to know you, brother ; for I saw you 
cry, yesterday, when he did not answer you at 
all. And, indeed, I wanted to help you, and tell 
you may be he would speak to you to-day ; but 
I couldn’t, because, you see, it made me cry 
too.” 

Ah ! the sympathetic chord in that tender 
heart ! How it vibrated to every touch of sor- 
row ! How keenly it felt for another’s woes, and 
how it longed to comfort and cheer ! Eugene 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


77 


pressed her to his strong, loving heart, and 
silently thanked God for such a treasure, invok- 
ing upon her the blessings of Heaven. A few 
moments later, and they reached the house. 
With Annetta’s hand in his, he went at once to 
his father’s room. 

That dear, thoughtful child has been to meet 
him, and hurry him here with all speed,” said 
Isabel to her mother, as she saw them ascend- 
ing the stairs. 

At last Eugene had the happiness of hearing 
his father speak his name. A smile of happi- 
ness, at seeing him, spread over his pale face 
as the words “Eugene, my dear son,” fell from 
his lips. He was very weak, however, and con- 
versation wearied him ; and after a little while 
he fell asleep. Eugene watched beside him, and 
several times heard him call his name, and saw 
him smile as he answered the summons. Once 
he pressed his hand, and looked longingly at each 
member of the household band, as if commend- 
ing them to his care. 




CHAPTER VI. 

OOD morning, Mr. Reed. What’s your 
hurry called out a pompous-looking 
gentleman, one morning, as Mr. Reed 
was hurrying down Broadway in the direction 
of his office. The gentleman addressed paused 
as his questioner stepped before him, extending 
the thumb and index-finger of his right-hand. 

What ’s your hurry repeated he. 

“An engagement at ten,” answered the lawyer. 

“How is business.^” asked his companion. 

“Brisk,” was the laconic reply. 

“Then I congratulate you, for you are cer- 
tainly very fortunate. Every body else is crying 
dull times, dull times, till I am tired of the end- 
less repetition.” 

“Then why repeat it yourself.?” 

“Why, having been forced to hear the cry so 
often, I don’t know but that I have become a 
kind of an echo myself, taking up the cry as 
others send it forth, repeating ever after them, 
dull times, dull times. But it was not for this 
78 



ANNETTA. 79 

I Stopped you, Reed. There’s a question I want 
to ask you.” 

“ Pray, then, be brief,” replied the lawyer, 
restraining with an effort a movement of impa- 
tience. 

“They tell me,” continued the gentleman, 
“ that Erasure’s place is going to be sold ; and 
as you have acted heretofore as his lawyer, I 
suppose you are well posted in his affairs, as a 
matter of course.” 

“Very likely,” returned Mr. Reed. 

“And as I am looking about for a country- 
seat, I thought it possible that the place might 
suit me passably well. ’Most too far from the 
city, though ; which is a very decided objection.” 

“Then why think of purchasing.?” asked the 
lawyer. 

“Why, you see, sir, we can’t be suited in 
every thing, you know ; and as it is situated at 
such a distance from the city as to render it 
rather inconvenient for business, you must un- 
derstand at once my motives.” 

“Not at all, sir; I am quite in the dark.” 

“Why, really, Reed, I thought you would see 
through it at once ; you are usually so keen. 
To be plain, then : as I said before, it is not con- 
veniently located, and will, therefore, not be 
likely to be sought after. Purchasers being few. 


8o 


ANNETTA j 


the place must be sold at a sacrifice, don’t you 
see ?” And the man chuckled as if keenly rel- 
ishing his own scheme. 

“No: I don’t see at all,” was the unsatisfac- 
tory reply. 

“Then what a blockhead you must have be- 
come !” cried the man, testily. 

“That does not of necessity follow,” quietly 
said Mr. Reed. 

“ Why, Reed, what has come over you ex- 
claimed the man, with an impatient gesture. 
“They say the place must be sold ; and, of course, 
such being the case, no one knows it better than 
yourself. Now, if there are no purchasers, what 
then ?” 

“If there be no purchasers, then, as a natural 
consequence, there can be no sale.” 

“ Botheration ! Can ’t you be made to under- 
stand at all ^ Now, see here, Reed ; you are well 
aware that old Erasure’s affairs are in a tangled 
condition. He is utterly incapable of attending 
to business ; and you know as well, perhaps bet- 
ter, than I, that he can not hold Clifton Place. 
Though you see fit to assume a very non-com- 
mittal attitude, it’s an easy matter to guess how 
matters stand. And, as I said before, the loca- 
tion is such that it must go cheap ; and, in that 
case, I shall, in all probability, become the pur- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 8 1 

chaser. At all events, my wife and I will drive 
out this afternoon, and take a survey of the house 
and grounds.” 

beg, Mr. Monroe, that you will do no such 
thing,” exclaimed the lawyer, with an interest 
such as he had not before manifested. 

“And why, may I ask?” replied Mr. Monroe, 
drawing himself up to his full height, with an 
air of offended dignity. 

“Simply because the place has not yet been 
publicly offered for sale, and the family are still 
there,” answered the lawyer, in a tone which, of 
itself, seemed to say, “ and that is reason enough.” 

“ Come, now, that ’s rich,” said Mr. Monroe, 
shrugging his shoulders and laughing derisively. 
“ Why, man alive ! if the place has not been pub- 
licly offered for sale, so much the better for all 
concerned. I shall just take it quietly off their 
hands at my own price, possibly ; at all events, 
get it cheap, and, at the same time, save them 
the publicity of a sale, and ” 

“Indeed, Mr. Monroe, it appears to me that 
would be taking an unfair advantage.” 

“Nonsense, Mr. Reed. It’s nothing in the 
world but a business transaction.” 

“Then it might be classed with the transac- 
tions of those who are said to cheat each other, 
and call it business.” 


6 


82 


ANNETTA ; 


“Not at all. There’s no cheating about it. 
I merely offer a price, you see. They being 
anxious to get the place off their hands (and if 
they are not, they ought to be, to pay their 
debts), and purchasers being few, they naturally 
accept terms, and the thing is done. Where, 
now, is the unfair advantage ? And as for the 
family being still there, why, the sooner they 
turn their backs upon it the better, say I ; for 
they have no right to it now. The money it 
would bring belongs, rightfully, to Erasure’s 
creditors. Of course, if I go out and buy the 
place, I would not expect to turn them out of 
doors. A reasonable time would be allowed them 
to get away in all order and decency, to be sure. 
So you can’t help seeing, now, that both your 
objections have fallen to the ground.” 

With a look of ill-concealed contempt, Mr. 
Reed replied: “You do not understand me, Mr. 
Monroe ; and we have as yet no right to meddle 
with the affairs of the family. The time for the 
sale of the house has not yet arrived ; and, al- 
though Mr. Erasure is not yet able to attend to 
business, owing to his long illness, his son has 
returned from Europe, and has taken the entire 
management of affairs into his own hands.” 

A look of surprise - spread itself over the face 
of Mr. Monroe at this announcement. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


83 


*^Well,” said he, he is no more capable of 
attending to business than Henry Erasure, I 
wouldn’t give much for his management.” 

Henry is but a boy, wholly unused to any 
responsibility. Eugene is fully capable of at- 
tending to the business, and is at present engaged 
in settling his father’s affairs.” 

“ Settling his affairs ! Grand settlement, I ’ve 
no doubt. Right glad am I that I ’m not num- 
bered among his creditors.” 

“ So am I ; sincerely so.” 

“Ah! You admit, then, that matters are as 
bad as they have been represented ?” 

“ I admit nothing I” 

“Hum ! You are retreating within your shell 
again, I see. But one word before you go,” cried 
he, catching at Mr. Reed’s coat-sleeve, as that 
individual prepared to beat a hasty retreat down 
Broadway again. 

“Well, what next.?” cried thejawyer, in a sort 
of desperation, knowing that in his office sat 
Eugene, waiting for him all this time. 

“ I would like to ask your real reasons for ob- ' 
jecting to a mere inspection of the premises.” 

“ They have been already given, sir. As I 'said 
before, the family are still there, and the inspec- 
tion, as you term it, would be an unwarrantable 
intrusion.” 


84 


ANNETTA ; 


“ I do n’t see it in that light,” replied Mr. Mon- 
roe. “They know they are obliged to sell out 
and quit the place. And I, for my part, don’t 
see any use in people putting on any such un- 
necessary airs, especially when they have to 
come down to nothing at last, as they are bound 
to do before long.” So saying, he strode haugh- 
tily away, leaving Mr. Reed to swallow his dis- 
gust, and resume his way. 

Reaching the office, he found Eugene waiting 
for him, according to appointment. An investi- 
gation of his father’s business affairs had proved 
that but a small portion of the once immense 
fortune would be left to him after the final set- 
tlement. That the dear old home must be sold 
was true, indeed. And with a heavy heart Eu- 
gene set about making arrangements for the 
future. In company with Mr. Reed, he drove 
out that pleasant afternoon to look at a small 
place in the suburbs of the city, wishing to have 
the family settled in a new home previous to 
offering Clifton Place for sale, in order to spare 
them the sorrow of seeing the dear old home- 
stead overrun by the people who would flock to 
the place, some actuated by a desire to purchase, 
others by idle curiosity. Mr. Erasure’s health 
had improved to such a degree that he was now 
able to go about the house at will. His mind, 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 8$ 

however, was shattered, and there was no sure 
foundation upon which to build a hope of its ever 
regaining the vigor of other days. He was weak 
in body still, easily fatigued, incapable of any 
exertion, and utterly unable to fix his thoughts 
upon one subject for any length of time. He 
was passive and quiet, often remaining for hours 
without bestowing the slightest attention upon 
any thing passing around him. At times a kind 
of stupor came over him, from which it was im- 
possible to arouse him. 

Little Annetta was at all times his chosen 
companion. Putting her hand in his, she would 
draw him out into the ‘garden on pleasant days, 
and try, by every art of which she was capable, 
to interest and please him. She would entice 
him to a seat in some beautiful spot, and gather 
flowers for him, and talk unceasingly, perfectly 
happy if she but succeeded in bringing a smile 
to his pale lips, or, better than all, if she won 
from him a caress. At times he would draw her 
to him and smooth her hair gently, speaking 
softly and lovingly as she looked up in his face, 
too happy to speak. Then, again, all her little 
arts passed unnoticed, and her words or deeds, 
no matter how kind or how often repeated, won 
no response. She would then seat herself at 
his feet, and watch him anxiously, waiting very 


86 


ANNETTA ; 


patiently, still in hopes he would notice her by 
and by. Sometimes, finding all her efforts use- 
less, she would go away for a while, and cry 
softly to herself; when, having relieved her bur- 
dened heart in secret, she would bathe her eyes 
carefully, and smooth her hair, lest he might 
happen to observe that she had wept over his 
indifference, and feel grieved himself. Effacing 
all traces of her grief, she would soon return to 
him, and renew her efforts to draw him from the 
stupor which so distressed her. Mrs. Erasure 
would often press the dear child to her heart 
and commend her for this devotion to her father, 
and then turn away arid weep bitterly at the 
thought of the blight which had come upon her 
fresh, young life, sapping thus early the fount- 
ains from whence should flow sweet, gushing 
rivers of gladness and joy. 

In all their afflictions, Godfrey and Mabel 
Moorely had remained stanch friends ; and it 
had been arranged that Mr. and Mrs. Erasure, 
with Annetta, who would not consent to a sepa- 
ration from “poor, dear papa,” should go to their 
home for a season, until a new one should be 
made ready for their reception. Eugene feared 
that the confusion and bustle , attendant upon a 
removal might prove injurious to him, in his 
present weak state. When told by Godfrey that 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 8/ 

his mother greatly desired a visit from him, he 
quietly acquiesced, and, without a word of in- 
quiry or hesitation, entered the carriage with his 
wife, • Annetta, and nephew, Godfrey Moorely. 
He appeared wholly indifferent to the ill-con- 
cealed emotions of Mrs. Erasure and Godfrey. 
Annetta sat beside him, and talked, in her sweet 
way, pointing out all the places of interest which 
they passed, winning, now and then, a gentle 
response. To Mrs. Erasure, the ride was a pain- 
ful one. Home had been given up. The beau- 
tiful place over which she had presided so long 
as mistress must pass now into ^other hands. 
She had taken leave of all that was dear to her 
there, and felt that she had turned her back 
upon it forever. Dropping her veil, she wept 
long and silently, while he who would once have 
felt grieyed over her slightest distress, now sat 
by unmoved. Godfrey watched her, with feel- 
ings of deepest sympathy, longing to comfort 
her, yet knowing so well how fruitless are such 
attempts at a time like this, and how empty and 
vapid seem the words intended to convey conso- 
lation. Annetta left her seat, and crept up to 
her mother’s side. Putting her arms about her 
neck, she kissed her softly, whispering, “Poor 
mamma !” Mrs. Erasure held her closely, breath- 
ing a silent blessing upon the child, ever so 


88 


ANNETTA ; 


attentive to the wants and sorrows of others. 
She tried to appear more cheerful for her sake, 
and at once threw back her veil; and, smoth- 
ering back the sorrow that still threatened to 
vent itself in tears, she talked to Annetta, and 
succeeded in banishing the look of grief which, 
for the moment, had overshadowed that fair 
young face. 

In seeking to cheer the child, she soon discov- 
ered her own burden had been lightened, and 
could not but think how truthful that saying 
which tells us that, in seeking to bless others, 
we draw a blessing upon ourselves ; but it was, 
at best, a dreary journey, and Godfrey, at least, 
was glad when it was ended. They drove up to 
a large, square-looking building, rather old-fash- 
ioned, yet very comfortable and pleasant withal, 
boasting of more elegance and beauty within 
than would be guessed by a mere exterior view. 
Mrs. Moorely — who, by the way, was Mr. Era- 
sure’s only sister — met them at the door, ready 
to extend a cordial welcome to them all. Mabel, 
too, was there, and very assiduous in her atten- 
tions to their guests. For a time, Mr. Erasure 
seemed roused from his usual indifference, and 
manifested a greater degree of interest in his 
surroundings than at any time since his illness. 
Mrs. Erasure felt encouraged, and even hoped 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 89 

that change of scene might indeed prove benefi- 
cial. Annetta, too, grew quite sprightly again, 
so rejoiced was she in her father’s improvement. 
Eugene, Henry, and Isabel had been left, accord- 
ing to their own urgent request, to arrange all 
the details in regard to disposing of the old 
house and arranging matters for the new, their 
mother promising acquiescence in all their plans, 
feeling confidence in Eugene’s ability to arrange 
all for the best. Mr. Reed had promised his 
assistance, and the entire matter was thus left in 
their hands. 

The place near the city, to which Eugene and 
Mr. Reed had driven out on the day of the lat- 
ter’s encounter with Mr. Monroe, had been taken, 
and all that now remained was to put it in order 
for the ^reception of their parents. They went 
bravely to work. Such portions of furniture as 
it was their intention to retain, were transported 
hither, and arranged as tastefully as possible. 
One of the pleasantest rooms was arranged for 
a study; for, though Mr. Erasure had but little 
use for one now, still it was Eugene’s desire that 
the new home should bear some resemblance, at 
least, to that from which they were now parting. 
Every article, therefore, belonging to it was re- 
tained ; and the new study was fitted up in as 
nearly the same style as possible, the books and 


90 


ANNETTA ; 


pictures being arranged just as they knew their 
father had formerly desired them at home. 
How poor Isabel struggled through all this, she 
scarcely knew. At times she toiled on like one 
in a dream, and again would seem so overcome 
as to be unable to proceed. Arousing herself 
■from this state of feeling, she would strive to go 
on with her difficult tasks, bearing the burdens 
of each succeeding day with a brave spirit. 
Eugene would not allow himself to -give way 
to despondency. His cheerfulness and brotherly 
kindness to Isabel aided her greatly in master- 
ing her own feelings, which so often threatened 
to yield to the trials that had gathered about 
her path. 

Henry was not disposed to submit readily to 
the great change in their circumstances. ,To him 
their fallen fortunes was a source of constant an- 
noyance and chagrin, which was manifested by 
complaints, fault-findings, and fretfulness. He 
made but little effort to assist Eugene and Isa- 
bel in their arduous undertaking, sitting idly by, 
remarking, every now and then, that every thing 
looked so small and mean he had no heart to 
work. In vain they tried to infuse ipto him, by 
both words and example, a portion of their own 
brave spirits. He refused to listen, and mur- 
mured continually over the hardness of their lot, 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 9 1 

grieving them sincerely, and bringing upon him- 
self the just censure of their kind friend, Mr. 
Reed. 

At last all was complete, and the morning 
came when they were to bid a last adieu to the 
home which had been so dear to them. Every 
spot had its own associations, and each was no\^ 
visited for the last time. Long did they linger 
by the river-side, listening sadly to the low 
murmurings of the stream. The long-neglected 
pleasure-boat still rocked gently to and fro; and 
Isabel’s tears flowed freely as she thought of the 
many happy evenings she had spent upon the 
water in company with her father, who, after a 
day spent amid the busy turmoil of the city, 
would return in the evening, call cheerily for 
Isabel; then, taking Nettie in his arms, would 
hasten, with springing step, to the river, and, 
putting them carefully in the little boat, would 
guide them out into the stream, enjoying the 
rest and pleasure which it afforded him. 

It was all over now; and Clifton Place had 
passed into the possession of another. Mr. Mon- 
roe was not the purchaser, however, since nei- 
ther Eugene nor Mr. Reed had accorded him 
any opportunity for carrying out his pet project 
of ‘^inspecting the premises.” The location had 
proved no detriment whatever, nor had any difli- 


92 


ANNETTA ; 


culty been experienced in effecting a sale. The 
present owner was an English gentleman of 
wealth and position, who, respecting the feelings 
of attachment which the family entertained for 
their home, cordially invited them to come often, 
kindly assuring them that he would never con- 
sider their presence at Clifton Place as an in- 
trusion. 

The Summer which had been marked by so 
many stirring events had at last passed away, 
giving place to the dreary days of Autumn. The 
leaves were dropping from the trees, and, with a 
low, rustling sound, like a faint sigh of sadness, 
fell to the ground beneath. The wind went wail- 
ing through the dismantled branches, while the 
sky above presented that dull, leaden appearance 
peculiar to the days which have been so fitly 
termed ‘‘the saddest of the year.” Our friends 
were now established in their new home, which, 
while it made no pretensions to elegance, was 
still very comfortable and pleasant. Upon his 
first arrival at the place, Mr. Erasure looked 
around with some show of interest. He asked 
no questions, however, and at times seemed rest- 
less, anxious, and uneasy, wandering about with 
a look that seemed to say he was ever searching 
for something which he could not find. Eugene 
and Isabel noticed, with feelings of satisfaction. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


93 


that he appeared to feel more at home in the 
study they had fitted up for him than in any 
other part of the house. Surrounded here by 
the same objects to which he had for years been 
accustomed, he seemed to lose the restlessness 
which troubled him when separated from that 
with which he had grown familiar. 

Mrs. Erasure tried to feel contented. She 
knew her children were constantly making every 
effort to render their new home as cheerful and 
homelike as possible, and she did not fail to ap- 
preciate all that they had done. A feeling of 
motherly pride arose in her heart, mingled with 
an earnest desire to feel satisfied with her lot. 
But every thing was new and strange, and so 
entirely different from that to which she, through 
all her life, had been accustomed. What wonder, 
then, that her present home seemed plain and 
cramped ? Like Henry, she felt she had no heart 
to work. But she did not increase the unhappi- 
ness of others by giving vent to the feelings 
which oppressed her. On the contrary, she con- 
cealed them nobly, lest any despondency on her 
part should throw a gloom over the household. 

Annetta appeared lost and bewildered. • She 
could not understand why there was no river 
and boats to look at, and why the carriage and 
pretty match-horses never came to take them 


94 


ANNETTA. 


out riding any more. She thought it very 
strange, indeed, that they should stay in such a 
place instead of their own beautiful home. The 
limited dimensions of the garden annoyed her 
exceedingly. In the home to which she was so 
strongly attached, there was so much beauty and 
grandeur, and, far as the eye could reach on 
every side, the grounds were laid out with taste 
and tended with the utmost care; while here, on 
the contrary, the garden was small, and had 
been sadly neglected. Eugene’s attempts at im- 
provement had, as yet, met with but poor suc- 
cess, since much time would be required to 
convert such a neglected waste into “a thing of 
beauty.” On the - first morning of her arrival, 
Annetta gazed in wonder from the windows for 
some time ; then, turning away, begged to be 
taken home. Her father’s voice roused her just 
then, and she hastened to answer his call ; and, 
being with him in the study the greater part of 
the time after that, she gradually lost her long- 
ing for the old, well-known place, and in time 
became quite reconciled to the new. 





% 


ANN ETTA AT THE WINDOW 


Face page 94 








^ 1 fc"' tt’r»S ^’^^■ -■■ 




*■ -^1 V . .' *\‘'- 

is ^ 

>«»,> '. KBOMH 






,i: » 


•’’J' 


> « 




/%’ 


-•V ., 


l-».. 


[V < 




/s 




' t.^** . ‘li ' 

•0 ■ V ^ V ^Di^nS . 1 /V « ^ I > i ■ “ ' ■ • ^ 


,r.v 


-iw 


V'i 




' 7 ;»”'<. 


- M' 




rj-tf .• . 


7 i.*'' 7 .i 

'■ 


L*- >. 




V . 

f,* 


'L* *’i( i ' ^ 7 *%. ' . •: 

V •■'■ ’ *' ' 'tr '■► •'''^ i • ^ ’"?r'; ‘i 

n . I u ' ' ' V’ • t L# » * * 


' - 'T 



[* I..I . .<r, .. •.-*• A lAAcTr 


^y: p ,\j&i^’' i< ' 






i''K 1 ''^''.': 7 ••;7'i' L/iSli?!?:; 




'.in^iViVr •. >’?.*(:'■'•■*• . -JBr'r ■■■',& 


'^/■t 


T 






Vk, 


r* 


i I& 

f at i m 




CHAPTER VIL 


must now pass over a period of sev- 
ral years, during which time no change 
'orthy of note had taken place in the 
Erasure family. Matters had gone on in much 
the usual way. Indeed, every day seemed to 
pass very much like its predecessor, and life at 
times appeared very monotonous and dreary. 
One evening, at the close of a cold December 
day, Mr. Reed sat alone in his office. The fire 
had burned low, and now gave evidence of 
speedily becoming but a heap of ashes. He still 
sat before it, gazing into its dying embers with 
an air of abstraction, wholly unmindful of the 
increasing chilliness of the room. The wind 
blew more and more drearily, the atmosphere 
grew colder, and the darkness momentarily in- 
creased. The sign at his door creaked dismally 
upon its hinges, swaying madly to and fro, as if 
about to be precipitated to the ground below. 
The large apartment was uncarpeted, and seemed 
rather bare and comfortless, even gloomy, by the 

95 



96 


ANNETTA ; 


dull light of the expiring fire ; and yet it was not 
altogether comfortless. An easy chair, a lounge 
well cushioned, and a book-case well filled, gave 
evidence of some regard being given to personal 
ease and comfort. The usual confusion and dis- 
regard for appearances, common to offices of ail 
descriptions, was apparent here, as elsewhere. 
The dusty table was piled up with books and 
newspapers, among which lay bundles of papers, 
and documents of various characters, carefully 
tied with tape. In one corner stood a broom, 
which evidently was seldom called into action ; 
while in the nook just beyond the book-case stood 
at least three pairs of boots, in various stages of 
repair ; flanked on one side by the inevitable boot- 
jack ; on the other, by a pile of dusty law-books. 
The wooden mantel-piece was strewn with arti- 
cles quite too numerous to mention, among which 
a shaving apparatus and hair-brush seemed most 
prominent. On one side of the unswept hearth 
stood a rough box, filled with coal ; and, beside 
it, a blacking-brush, with its attendant box of 
French polish, was seen. 

The sudden ringing of the door-bell aroused 
the lawyer from the reverie in which he had so 
long indulged. Rising hastily from his seat, he 
glanced at the clock, and left the room to answer 
the summons himself. He opened the door ; and. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


97 

to his great surprise, Isabel Erasure stood before 
him. 

“Miss Erasure!” exclaimed he, in a tone of 
astonishment. 

“Yes, Mr. Reed, it is I,” answered Isabel, 
throwing back . her veil, revealing traces of a 
recent flow of tears from the dark, expressive 
eyes, which were raised timidly to his. “May 
I come in she asked. 

“ Certainly, certainly. Miss Isabel. Pardon the 
lack of invitation on my part. I was so sur- 
prised to see you out, on such an unpleasant 
evening, that I quite lost sight of my polite- 
ness,” exclaimed the lawyer, leading the way to 
his offlce. 

Isabel followed, silently. Throwing open the 
door, Mr. Reed paused at the threshhold, in 
evident embarrassment. The disorder which 
reigned throughout the apartment struck him, 
just then, in a most unfavorable light ; and the 
thought crossed his mind that it was really a 
very untidy place in which to receive a lady vis- 
itor. It certainly looks much more forlorn than 
usual, thought he, as, with many apologies, he 
brought forth an easy-chair, and begged Isabel 
to be seated, while he turned his attention to- 
ward coaxing into more genial warmth the ex- 
piring fire. After a few well-directed efforts, a 
7 


98 


ANNETTA ; 


ruddy blaze flamed up ; and soon Isabel’s chilled 
hands and feet were restored to comparative 
comfort. Wondering greatly what could have in- 
fluenced her to come to him at such a time, he 
bustled about a few moments, intent upon mak- 
ing her comfortable. 

“ For,” said he, “ I ’m sure you must be very 
cold, and tired too.” 

A moment’s silence ensued. Isabel sat, with 
downcast eyes, while Mr. Reed watched her fur- 
tively, waiting for her to introduce the object of 
her call. 

*‘You are surprised to see me here this even- 
ing,” she said, at last. “I came late, because I 
could find no other opportunity to-day for seeing 
you ; and I felt that I must see you at once. 
You have been a friend to us in the past, Mr. 
Reed. We have appreciated the kindness you 
have shown us since our troubles came upon us ; 
and I do not know where to seek for advice and 
counsel, save from you.” 

Indeed, Miss Isabel,” he replied, I am always 
happy to be of any service whatever to you. In 
days long since departed forever, your father was 
a true friend to me. I owe him a debt of grati- 
tude I can never repay; and if, at any time, I 
can aid you, by word or deed, you have but to 
command me.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


99 


*^You are very kind, and from my heart I 
thank you,” replied Isabel, thinking over to her- 
self the words he had spoken in regard to her 
father. Any tribute of praise to him was very 
precious to her now. 

“Yes,” continued the lawyer, speaking as if 
she had not interrupted that tribute of praise, 
“any service I can render the children of my 
kind friend will be willingly, yes, gladly, per- 
formed; and if you are in any trouble. Miss 
Isabel, from which I can afford any aid whatever 
in extricating you, I beg you will let me know it.” 

He spoke warmly, his kind heart already yearn- 
ing to lift the burden beneath which he clearly 
saw she was staggering. His words and earnest 
sympathy infused new courage into her heart; 
and, looking timidly up, she said, in a low voice, 

“I came, Mr. Reed, to consult you upon two 
very important matters, both of which are sources 
of pain and trouble to me. First, I want to speak 
of Henry. It is hard for a sister to enter com- 
plaints to any one of a brother ; and I have hesi- 
tated long before doing so, but have at last been 
driven to even this.” 

She paused, as if to gather strength and cour- 
age to go on ; and after a moment’s silence, upon 
which Mr. Reed did not think it best to intrude, 
she resumed her recital, in a sad, pitiful tone. 


100 


ANNETTA ; 


*‘You already know enough of his disposition, 
Mr. Reed, to be well aware that he has long been 
an object of great anxiety to us all. He is now 
a strong, robust boy of nineteen, able to do much 
to lighten the heavy cares and responsibilities 
with which Eugene is burdened ; and yet, strange 
to say, he is idle from morning till night, wan- ^ 
dering about in a listless, indolent way, which 
troubles our poor mother continually. I have 
begged and entreated that he would make some 
effort to become more useful, for his own sake, 
as well as for others ; but all to no purpose. He 
complains bitterly, still, of our father’s misfor- 
tunes, and can not be brought to see that he 
might repair them, in a measure, if he would but 
try. He has no ambition to make the attempt, 
and becomes quite ill-natured whenever the sub- 
ject is mentioned. I am at a loss to know what 
course to pursue in regard to it ; for it is evident 
that matters can not long continue as they are. 
Our little income is not sufficient for our wants. 

It is dwindling away ; and we are daily becoming 
more dependent upon Eugene, who exerts him- 
self to the utmost to supply every need. Poor 
Eugene! O, it grieves me to the heart to see 
how nobly he toils, day after day, for us! All 
the bright dreams of his youth have been given 
up; and he is devoting himself to a life of self- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


lOI 


sacrifice, for the sake of those who cling to him 
for both support and comfort. Henry must be 
brought to see the necessity of exerting himself 
in some way. His boyhood days are over now; 
and he really needs employment of some kind, 
with which to occupy his mind. I am sure he 
would be less unhappy himself, besides relieving 
our minds of much anxiety concerning him. The 
question now is, how can it be donei*'’ 

Mr. Reed had listened attentively to Isabel's 
recital, and now sat a few moments in thoughtful 
silence. 

“You say you have set the matter plainly be- 
fore him said he, at last. 

“Yes, frequently. I have pleaded with him in 
behalf of our poor father, and mother too, who 
seems to be daily growing more fragile and ill. I 
have even spoken of Annetta too, who may some 
day be obliged to look to him for protection.” 

“And he did not receive it kindly.?” 

“ No : quite the contrary. In fact, such conver- 
sations irritate him to such a degree that I have 
no courage to refer to it again. I thought it 
possible you might have some influence over him, 
which you would willingly exert in our behalf” 

Mr. Reed shook his head, as if to imply a^ 
doubt of success. 

“We]],” said he, “at all events, we can try. 


102 


ANNETTA; 


Something must certainly be done. But has 
Eugene ever spoken to him about it.?” 

“Yes: but Henry would not listen. Only this 
morning, Eugene requested him to go with him 
to the office, and assist him, for an hour or two, 
in assorting over some papers. Henry muttered 
something about the stupidity of the thing, and 
immediately left the house, and has not returned 
since.” 

Mr. Reed gave all the encouragement he could, 
and promised all the aid he might be able to 
give; agreeing, also, to consult with Eugene in 
regard to it, on the following day. 

“And now,” said he, “what is the other subject 
you wish to speak of.? Do n’t hesitate to tell me 
freely. I prefer that you should be frank and 
candid, always regarding me in the light of your 
father’s friend, to whom you can freely bring your 
troubles.” 

“My doing so now, proves the confidence I 
have in you,” replied Isabel; “and the subject is 
one which concerns myself. As I said before, 
it grieves me beyond expression to see Eugene 
struggling so manfully for us. I can not bear to 
see him so burdened with daily cares, and am 
anxious to share them with him.” 

“A desire which does you credit, Miss Isabel. 
But how can it be done?” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 03 

“‘Where there is a will, there is a way.’ Mr. 
Reed, can I not prove the truth of that saying?” 

“ I have no doubt of your entire willingness to 
do so; but you have never been accustomed to 
bearing a part in the world’s great field of labor.” 

“Nor had Eugene any experience of that na- 
ture, before our father’s misfortunes ; and yet see 
how bravely he went to work, and how persist- 
ently he has battled, day after day, with all the 
trials which have beset him! He is strong in 
spirit, persevering, and determined. And why 
can I not imitate these traits, even though I am 
but a weak, timid girl? A few years, at most, 
will overcome such difficulties ; and God will 
help me,” she added, softly; for Eugene’s faith 
and noble example had not been without its 
effect upon her. She was daily learning to look 
to the same unfailing source for comfort and 
help. “God’s promises are sure and steadfast,” 
continued she, “and he has promised to help 
those who put their trust in him ; and I shall 
have the satisfaction, too, of knowing I tried to 
assist Eugene.” 

“You are right. Miss Isabel,” replied the law- 
yer, earnestly; “and I am glad to see that you 
are so courageous as to be willing to step forth 
from the seclusion of your present life into a 
more active one, for the sake of those around 


104 


ANNETTA ; 


you. But have you considered the cost? Have 
you thought of the sacrifice of ease and personal 
comfort which such a course must necessarily 
involve ?” 

“Ease and personal comfort!” echoed Isabel. 
“Ah, Mr. Reed, they were foresworn long ago!” 

The tone, more than the words, convinced Mr. 
Reed that Isabel was thoroughly in earnest ; and 
he felt assured that whatever she undertook 
would not fail of success for want of energy 
or will. 

“ She is like her father,” thought he. “ She has 
the same determination and persevering spirit 
which characterized him in his younger days. 
Eugene, too, has inherited the same traits.” 

Isabel sat, watching him, waiting for his opin- 
ion, and for some word of encouragement too; 
for she had great confidence in the lawyer’s 
judgment. 

“Have you any definite plans. Miss Isabel? 
Is there any special work for which you feel 
qualified?” asked he, at last. 

“I think I could give instructions in Music 
and Painting,” she answered. 

“You are quite proficient, I believe, in both.” 

“I have a natural love for both, and applied 
myself assiduously, while receiving instructions 
in them, with the hope of perfecting myself, as 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 105 

far as possible, for the sake of the pleasure which 
I derived from them, and to gratify my friends 
also. I little thought, at the time, I should ever 
make such use of the knowledge as I now pro- 
pose to do.’' 

“It is well that you did so; and believe me, 
my young friend, I commend your course, and 
wish you all possible success. Not that I give 
you good wishes only,” he added, with a smile ; 
“for I too often have occasion to prove of how 
little value they really are, when taken alone. I 
shall take pleasure in assisting you, as far as 
I am able, and will use all the influence I have, 
among my friends and acquaintances, in procur- 
ing pupils for you.” 

“I thank you, O, far more than words can 
express, not only for the aid you so kindly prom- 
ise, but for the encouragement you have given 
me!” exclaimed Isabel, warmly. 

“Indeed, Miss Isabel,” replied he, “it is one 
of my greatest pleasures always to lend a help- 
ing hand to those who try to help themselves. 
Cheer up! We shall soon have a class with 
which to begin. But, by the way, now I think 
of it, there are a few obstacles still obstructing 
your path, some of which I am not sure can be 
easily removed.” 

“And what are they, Mr. Reed. I have 


io6 


ANNETTA ; 


weighed the matter as carefully as possible ; but 
I am young and inexperienced, and probably 
short-sighted. I shall be glad to receive advice.” 

“Well, Miss Isabel, pardon me if I give you 
pain ; but are you aware that the gay circle in 
which you have moved, will not be likely to look 
upon the teacher in quite the same light as they 
regarded the heiress 

“ I understand you, Mr. Reed, and am pre- 
pared for any trials of that nature which I may 
be called upon to endure. I am strong enough 
to bear it, I assure you.” 

“ I hope so ; and am glad to know that you 
have, in a measure, prepared yourself for it. But 
your strength has not been tested, and you have 
no experience in such matters. Society is greatly 
at fault in these particulars ; and I fear you 
will often meet with cool indifference now from 
many who have heretofore professed the warmest 
friendship, and, perhaps, even shared the hospi- 
talities of Clifton Place.” 

“ Such friendships, Mr. Reed, are of little value. 
I can afford to lose them,” exclaimed Isabel. 

Mr. Reed smiled, as, with a look of approba- 
tion, he replied: “I am rejoiced to learn that 
society has not spoiled you with her hollow pro- 
fessions and meaningless flatteries. Not that I 
would ignore the genuine good feeling which 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 10/ 

does exist among some ; for I am glad to be able 
to say that, in this matter, the old saying re- 
garding exceptions to all rules holds good ; but 
I only want to prepare you for some changes 
which I feared you would not expect, and pos- 
sibly lack courage to meet. But your good sense 
and natural independence will enable you to pass 
safely through all these minor troubles. If you 
look upon them in the right light, they are but 
trifles, after all. But there is another difficulty 
in your way. Miss Isabel — one which I scarcely 
know how we will dispose of.” 

Possibly it may not appear so formidable 
when we consider it well,” said Isabel. 

^‘Then I will be frank and candid. Do you 
know that you will be obliged to be absent from 
home the greater part of the time ? Your father 
needs almost constant care, and your mother is 
in feeble health. I do not wish to alarm you ; 
but I do think she looks seriously ill, though 
she complains so little. Now, are you quite sure 
that you are called upon to enter into this new 
work.? Are you not, after all, overlooking the 
first and highest duty of your life .? They have 
the first claim upon you. How will your place 
be supplied to them .?” 

‘‘ I am not surprised at your question, Mr. 
Reed,” replied Isabel. “Were my place not al- 


io8 


ANNETTA ; 


ready supplied to them, I should not, for a mo- 
ment, have thought of seeking a field of labor 
elsewhere.” 

I do not understand you. To whom have 
you resigned the care asked the lawyer, with 
a puzzled look. 

“I did not resign it. It has been gradually 
wrested from me, till I find myself quite sup- 
planted,” replied Isabel, smiling at his look of 
incredulity. 

“You seem to be in earnest,” said he; “but 
you speak in riddles ; and, indeed, you must also 
solve them.” 

“ In a word, then, my sister Annetta is my 
successor. I wonder you did not at once think 
of her.” 

“Annetta! You astonish me. Why, she is 
but a child.” 

“A child in years ; but in thought and action 
she is quite a woman already.” 

“And yet it seems but yesterday I held her on 
my knee, and repeated stories for her amusement. 
How time passes I” said Mr. Reed, thoughtfully. 

“ The time for such childish things soon passed 
away for her, poor child. We tried to keep her 
cheerful and gay and childish ; but we could not. 
It is true, she is cheerful still ; but it is of a dif- 
ferent nature. We tried to prevent her • from 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 109 

taking upon her young shoulders so much care; 
but she could not be held back. Papa liked to 
have her with him. He never seems easy when 
she is not there. She noticed it, and began to 
consider it her duty to be. ready, at all times, to 
minister to all his wants. If I attempted to re- 
lieve her, she became as anxious and uneasy as 
papa himself; and we finally concluded to leave 
them together, since it made them both more 
contented. Gradually she took our mother under 
her charge also, running here and there to obey 
her slightest desire. She frequently reads to her, 
while papa sits by, apparently interested too. 
This has gone on so long now, and the dear child 
seems so unhappy when she is not of use to our 
dear parents, that we have gradually yielded to 
her in these respects until she seems to have as- 
sumed charge of the whole. So well does she 
perform all these duties, that I feel I can safely 
leave her to her chosen work, and seek for my- 
self that which can be made to benefit us all.” 

Mr. Reed had listened with surprise and in- 
terest to this account of the labor of love into 
which Annetta had entered with so much de- 
votion. 

“ I knew,” said he, “ that Annetta was a re- 
markably quick child, but had no idea she had 
become quite such a little woman. But how 


1 10 


ANNETTA ; 


about her education ? What are you doing for 
her in that line ?” 

“ Our thoughtful brother, Eugene, has taken 
entire charge of her education. She learns re- 
markably quick ; and, aside from her love of books, 
her desire to please Eugene has always been a 
great incentive to exertion. He spends all his 
evenings intthe study with her.” 

What a noble young man !” exclaimed Mr. 
Reed. “ Indeed, there are few who can compare 
favorably with your brother. Miss Isabel.” 

A look of pride and sisterly affection beamed 
from her eyes as she replied: “You are right, 
Mr. Reed ; and you do not know how it rejoices 
me to feel that I shall soon be able to share with 
him the work of providing for the dear ones at 
home, whom it will be our sweetest pleasure to 
make comfortable and happy. And you will see 
Henry, won’t you she added, as she rose to go. 

“ Yes ; I will endeavor to see both him and 
Eugene to-morrow,” replied the lawyer, taking 
up his hat to accompany her home. 

They left the bright, cheerful fire, which was 
now distributing its pleasant light and warmth 
into every nook and corner of the room, and 
passed out into the frosty air. The wind still 
swept through the streets with a dismal cry, and 
the night was unusually cold and dark. Isabel 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


Ill 


paid but little heed to these discomforts, how- 
ever, so intent was she upon the subjects of the 
late conversation. They continued to discuss the 
matter as they proceeded on their way, and be- 
came so absorbed in the plans laid out for future 
work, that the walk seemed unusually short. The 
lawyer declined entering, as the hour was late, 
and he had letters to write, and also thought it 
better to defer speaking to Eugene in regard to 
Henry until the next day. Again bidding her 
cheer up, and hope for the best, he bade her 
good-night, and turned to retrace his steps. Isa- 
bel softly opened the door, and passed into the 
dimly lighted parlor, where she found Annetta 
sitting before the fire awaiting her return, won- 
dering greatly at her long absence. 

^‘Dear sister,” said she, I have been so anx- 
ious about you, and real lonely too. I could not 
study ; for thoughts of you kept coming between 
me and my books.” 

“ But where is Eugene, and where are the usual 
recitations to-night ? I thought you would both 
be so deeply engaged that I would never be 
missed,” said Isabel, removing her hat and cloak, 
and taking a seat beside Annetta, who at once 
began to explain the cause of her sitting there 
alone. Eugene was suffering with a severe cold, 
she said, and had gone to his room, being too 


II2 


ANNETTA j 


unwell to hear her lessons that night. ‘*And so 
I have been alone,” she added, ‘^sitting here, 
wishing you would come.” 

To satisfy Annetta’s natural anxiety, Isabel 
explained to her that she had been to consult 
with their kind friend, Mr. Reed, in regard to 
her plan of procuring pupils in Music and Paint- 
ing. Of Henry she said nothing, not wishing to 
distress her already overburdened heart with the 
additional fears and anxieties which oppressed 
her own. She told her frankly that their in- 
come was not sufficient for their wants, and that 
Eugene was daily exerting himself beyond his 
strength. 

*‘And you know, dear,” said she, ‘Hhat our 
parents must want for nothing. You take such 
good care of them, Annetta, that I have con- 
cluded to go out into the world’s great field of 
labor and find a little niche somewhere which I 
can fill ; and perform, to the best of my ability, 
the work which I feel I am called upon to do.” 

But can you do this .?” said Annetta. “ O, dear 
sister, won’t it be a great task And she looked 
up with tearful eyes into the face of her brave 
sister, who she felt was undertaking too much 
for the feeble strength of one raised in the lap of 
luxury. 

“ I must do it, dear,” said Isabel, kissing away 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. II3 

the tears ; ‘‘and you will see how bravely I shall 
conquer all the difficulties that come in my 
way.” 

“ I know you are earnest and persevering, like 
Eugene,” said Annetta ; “ but I am afraid it will 
be too hard for you, dear Belle ; I am, indeed.” 

“ God will help me, little sister ; never fear.” 

“ I believe it, Belle. Eugene’s comfort and 
strength all seems to come from Heaven. Don’t 
you think so, sister ?” 

“Yes, Annetta. He never could struggle so 
nobly onward beneath his many burdens, if he 
were not aided by the ever-helping hand of the 
Father in heaven, in whom he has such unwav- 
ering faith.” 

“Did you notice, sister, how fervently he said 
that prayer last Sunday, when he repeated it with 
the congregation, at Church 

“Yes! Every word came from his heart, I 
know, and ascended on high to Him who never 
fails to hear the prayers of a trusting soul.” 

“ How much I wish I loved Him like Eu- 
gene!” said Annetta, with a sigh. 

“That wish finds an echo in my own heart, 
little sister ; and I am trying every day to love 
Him more.” 

^‘And I, too, have been long trying to follow 
Eugene’s example. But last night he told me 
8 


ANNETTA ; 


1 14 

he was full of faults, and had need of prayer con- 
stantly to keep his own heart right in the sight 
of God ; and he told me I must take Christ alone 
for my leader, and follow Him.” 

“And we will accept Him as our leader, dear 
little sister ; and let us try together to follow Him. 
We can help each other, and Eugene will help 
us both.” 

“Yes; for he says the love of Christ in our 
hearts is calculated to meet the great want of 
life,” said Annetta. “ It is this knowledge which 
keeps him so cheerful and kind, I am sure. He 
says that this alone will fill that void in the heart 
which so often yearns for something that will 
fully satisfy.” 

“And I think he is right ; for, you know, he 
never is restless, never complains or grows weary 
in well-doing,” remarked Isabel, gazing thought- 
fully into the fire. 

“ I heard him talking to mamma, yesterday, on 
that very point,” said Annetta. 

“ And what did she say .?” asked Isabel, eagerly. 

“ I did not hear all she said,” replied Annetta ; 
“ but she seemed to think that her trials were not 
of a nature to draw her thoughts to Heaven. She 
said something about being so weighed down by 
trouble, she had no strength to look beyond them 
if she wished.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. I15 

“ Poor mamma ; she has so much to grieve her 
God grant her strength to bear it !” said Isabel, 
earnestly. 

“And to look up, too,” was Annetta’s whis- 
pered response. 

“Yes, indeed, darling; let this be our prayer 
for both our afflicted parents.” 

A long silence followed ; for the sisters seemed 
absorbed in thought. Suddenly they were aroused 
by the sound of the clock, which chimed forth the 
hour of midnight. Surprised to learn how quickly 
the time had passed, they hastened at once to 
their room. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

R. REED regained his office, glad to 
find shelter there from the whistling 
wind and the white, feathery flakes of 
snow that were now falling rapidly. By the aid 
of the grim-looking boot-jack, another pair of 
boots were added to the stock already on hand 
in the quiet nook, and the lawyer’s feet were 
snugly incased in a pair of comfortable slippers. 
The table was drawn closer to the fire, the books 
and papers were thrust into close quarters on 
one side, and the lawyer began his work. Rap- 
idly the pen dashed over the paper. One mis- 
sive completed, it was placed in its yellow cover, 
properly sealed, and directed. A second sheet 
was spread out ; the pen was already forming 
the first letter, when the sound of the door-bell 
again rang through the room with startling dis- 
tinctness. 

“ Who can that be, at such an hour exclaimed 
Mr. Reed, dropping his pen in haste. “ It must 
be urgent business that sends any one out in 

ii6 



'annetta. 117 

such a storm. Possibly some one who desires 
to have a will drawn up.” 

He opened the door. A gust of wind swept 
in ; and, for a moment, he could see nothing but 
the great flakes of snow which drifted in, to his 
very feet. Beyond the threshold, nothing was 
visible but the murky darkness of the night. 
He stepped out, and looked up and down the 
street, when suddenly a voice at his elbow spoke 
his name. He turned in the direction of the 
voice, and his eyes fell upon the figure of a man 
leaning against the house. His hat was drawn 
over his eyes, and his head bent as if to ward 
off the wind and snow. Mr. Reed addressed him, 
and asked his business. As he spoke, the figure 
emerged from the shadow of the house, and, step- 
ping forward, stood beside him, raising his hat at 
the same time. The light from the hall-lamp 
fell directly upon his face. Mr. Reed stepped 
back in surprise. 

'‘Henry,” cried he, “what brings you here.? 
What has happened .?” And visions of sudden 
illness, danger, and accident arose before him; 
for what but necessity would have brought 
Henry Erasure to him at such a time.? 

“I have come to tell you I am going away, 
sir, and want you to tell them,” said Henry, in 
an excited manner. 


ii8 


ANNETTA; 


“Going away!” echoed Mr. Reed. “You don’t 
mean that, I ’m sure. Come, step in, Henry, out 
of the storm, and explain your meaning.” 

“No,” said Henry, drawing back, “there’s no 
explanation needed. I simply said I intended 
going away; and my object in coming here is 
to ask you to break the news to those I leave 
behind me.” 

“This is unaccountable. Come, do step into 
my office, and let us talk the matter over.” 
And he laid his hand persuasively upon Henry’s. 

“I can not. Time passes. In an hour, I 
shall be far away. Will you tell them at home 
asked Henry, stepping away from the lawyer’s 
side, as if fearing detention. 

“But where are you going, Henry, and for 
what.^ I beg of you, do nothing hastily. You 
are excited, and will surely regret this step.” 

And he advanced toward Henry, who retreated 
backward, saying, in a quick, resolute tone: 

“It matters not now where I am going. The 
future will tell. I only ask you to tell them I 
am gone, and that I left a good-bye for them all 
with you. And tell them, too, that it will be use- 
less to try to discover my whereabouts. In time, 
they will know. And say to them, too, that I am 
not worth grieving for, nor worthy a single sigh 
of regret.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 19 

O, Henry, how can you speak so ? How can 
you do this? I beg of you, pause! Let me 
ask—” 

“Ask me nothing,” interrupted the excited 
Henry. “Only tell me you will deliver my mes- 
sage at home. Surely, you can not refuse me 
that.” 

“ I do not refuse any thing, Henry, my boy. I 
only—” 

“Enough. You do not refuse; then you have 
promised. Farewell !” And, with a sudden move- 
ment, Henry turned, waved his hand as if in 
token of an adieu, and sped rapidly down the 
street. 

“Henry! Henry!” called the lawyer; but the 
only answer he received was the dismal sound of 
the wailing wind. 

To spring into the office, don the discarded 
boots, and catch up his hat, was but the work of 
a moment. Closing the outer door with a bang 
that resounded throughout the whole house, he 
started, at his utmost speed, in the direction 
which Henry had taken. 

“O, that I could but overtake him, could but 
persuade him to give up this strange undertak- 
ing, whatever it may be !” said he, as he pressed 
hurriedly forward. 

Square after square was left behind. His pace 


120 


ANNETTA; 


never slackened; his one thought, saving Henry. 
But no H^nry appeared in sight. Once or twice, 
he fancied he saw him ; but, upon overtaking the 
person, "it proved to be a stranger. Disheartened 
and out of breath, he paused at last for a mo- 
ment’s rest, and began to consider what it was 
best to do under such trying circumstances. Not 
knowing in what direction now to proceed, he felt 
that it would be worse than useless to attempt 
to track him further. 

^‘Eugene must know of this,” said he; and, 
acting upon the impulse of the moment, his steps 
were immediately turned in that direction. 

Facing the wind, he walked on. The way 
was dark and lonely, and his heart heavy and 
sad. The distance seemed great, and the time 
appeared to drag wearily by, though he walked 
as rapidly as wailing winds and drifting snow 
would permit, and at last stood before the house. 
All was silent and dark. No signs were to be 
seen which indicated that any of the inmates 
were astir. For the first time, the lateness of 
the hour occurred to the lawyer’s mind. 

'‘After midnight,” said he, “and they are sleep- 
ing. Would it be wise and best to awaken them } 
Can any thing be done now } Is it not already 
too late.?” And Henry’s words, “In an hour, I 
shall be far away,” came back with force upon 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


I2I 


him. “The hour is already past,” said he, “and 
Henry undoubtedly is far on his way. Misguided 
boy ! And what a task he has left for me !” 

Long he stood, scarcely knowing what plan to 
pursue; deciding, finally, that, as it was already 
too late to take any decided steps, it would be 
useless, even cruel, to arouse the family and in- 
flict upon them so heavy a blow. 

“ Let them rest. Soon enough must they learn 
of the additional burden to be rolled upon them,” 
said he, as he turned away; and again passed 
over the lonely road, musing sadly over this new 
trial in store for his afflicted friends, regretting 
that to him had been delegated the sad duty of 
imparting to them the unwelcome news. 

Reaching his offlce again, he shook off the 
snow with which he was covered, realizing for 
the first time that, in his excitement, he had 
gone out into the storm without an overcoat to 
protect him from the piercing cold of that wild 
December night. Deeply troubled, he sat down 
to think and plan; and when at last he extin- 
guished the light and went to his room, the clock 
pointed to the hour of three. 

“Sister Belle,” said Annetta, on the following 
morning, “don’t you think papa has been im- 
proving very much the last few weeks .^” 


122 


ANNETTA ; 


‘^Yes, dear. I have been watching a gradual 
change for some time, and rejoicing over it in 
secret; fearing to mention my hopes to you too 
soon, lest he might sink into the old way again, 
and disappoint you sadly.” 

I have felt just so myself, dear sister; but, 
the last few days, he has been quite talkative, 
and came into the study; one evening, and stood 
a long time behind my chair, while £ugene was 
explaining a problem in Algebra. I ’m afraid I 
thought more about him, just then, than I did of 
the problem.” 

I think,” replied Isabel, that our poor mother 
has been noting the change too ; for she seems 
in better spirits lately, and appears to be stronger 
too. I believe if our father recovers, she will be 
herself again, as of old.” 

“ O, I am sure of it,” said Annetta ; “ and who 
knows, sister dear, but that we may be very 
happy yet.?” 

Isabel smiled upon her hopeful sister; but a 
sigh struggled up from the depths of her heart : 
“ Poor darling!” thought she, “ God grant that her 
life may indeed be one of peace, if not of perfect 
happiness 1” 

'‘I am going to read to him to-day, Belle. 
Eugene brought me a book last night, which, 
I fancy, will fix his attention for a little while 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 23 

at least,” she added as a recollection of many 
such attempts, fruitless and saddening, came 
unbidden before her. They descended to the 
breakfast-room below, and soon the family were 
gathered around the table. The room was 
pleasant and cheerful ; the glories of the morn- 
ing sun were every-where apparent; and the 
ruddy blaze of the fire sent forth a warmth and 
cheering glow very grateful this cold Winter 
morning. And yet — there was a great contrast 
between the small, plainly furnished apartment, 
and the large, commodious one so elegantly fitted 
up at Clifton Place. Mrs. Erasure seldom en- 
tered the room without feeling the change, and 
mentally regretting it, with a pain in her heart 
almost as keen as that which was experienced 
upon the first day of her arrival there, some 
years before. She could not become reconciled. 
Within her heart a rebellious feeling continually 
made itself felt ; and while striving to appear 
calm and contented for the sake of her children, 
there were never-ending chafings and silent mur- 
murings within. Such a state of feeling could 
not fail to produce evil results, and naturally 
made sad havoc of her peace, and brought about 
a feeble state of health. A hopeless despond- 
ency was apparent in all her movements, though 
she seldom gave vent to her feelings. 


124 


ANNETTA ; 


As she took her place at the table this bright 
morning, mentally regretting the absence of the 
elegant silver service to which she had from 
childhood been accustomed, her eyes fell upon 
the pleasant faces gathered around her, and she 
could not fail to perceive that a feeling of unu- 
sual contentment and peace seemed to pervade 
the little circle. Mr. Erasure evinced more in- 
terest in the conversation than usual, and even 
took some part in it himself, to the great delight 
of all ; to none more than the attentive Annetta, 
who always took it upon herself to see that his 
wants were well supplied ; in addition to which, 
she sought to keep him both pleased and inter- 
ested. Mrs. Erasure watched him a little while, 
and a pleased, glad look came into her eyes, and 
within her heart stole a feeling of peace and rest, 
such as she had not known for years. “ I will 
conquer this discontent,” thought she ; I will 
learn the lessons taught me by my children and 
a feeling of shame for her past weakness came 
over her. As Henry seldom made his appear- 
ance till after the breakfast-hour had passed, his 
absence was not remarked. Isabel was quieter 
than the rest upon the present occasion ; for she 
was anxiously awaiting an opportunity to unfold 
her new plans to Eugene, half fearing he v/ould 
oppose, yet quite determined to win his approval 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


125 


at last. Breakfast over, Mr. Erasure went to 
his study, and the family separated, each intent 
upon the performance of his or her respective 
duties. . . . 

The day has passed. ’T is evening again, dark 
and cheerless without ; but O, who can tell how 
dark and cheerless within ! The new-born peace 
and hope of the morning had vanished. The 
clouds which had been lifted for a little while, 
letting in upon them, for a moment, a flood of 
golden sunshine, had lowered again ; and how 
drear, how ominous and threatening ! The blow 
had fallen ! Henry’s message had been delivered, 
and with it came a weight of sadness which pen 
can not portray. Mrs. Erasure sat like one sud- 
denly stunned. She could not at once realize 
that her boy had really left his home and become 
a wanderer ; she felt grieved, she said, that he 
had been so discontented, but was sure he would 
soon be home again. But when told that he had 
desired Mr. Reed to say that he was not worthy 
a sigh of regret, the full force of his words came 
like a sudden flood upon her, and she moaned 
and wept piteously. 

“ We have been unkind to him ; we have driven 
him from us !” she cried. “ O, that we had been 
more patient !” 

It had been thought advisable to conceal the 


126 


ANNETTA ; 


fact of Henry’s departure, from his father, as long 
as possible ; but with an eye which seemed to be 
slowly regaining its power of penetration, he saw 
that some new calamity had befallen them. He 
questioned Annetta, but she adroitly evaded him ; 
he afterward learned all by accidentally over- 
hearing the bitter lamentations of his wife. He 
entered the room where she sat, and going to her, 
quietly and gently, laid his hand upon her bowed 
head, and tried to murmur some words of com- 
fort. Surprised at the unusual act, she raised 
her head, and, seeing the look of sympathy with 
which he regarded her, she threw herself into his 
arms, weeping bitterly, exclaiming brokenly, “ O, 
Arthur, to think of our poor boy — our Henry — a 
wanderer now upon the face of the earth !” 

“ Maria,” said he, speaking with great difficulty, 
“we have no son but Eugene.” Rising, he ap- 
proached the mantel-piece over which hung a 
portrait of Henry. Slowly he turned it with the 
face toward the wall, shaking his head mourn- 
fully, saying as before, “ We have no son but 
Eugene.” He immediately left the room, and 
with a slow, uneven step, passed to his study. 
Half frightened at his strange manner, Mrs. 
Erasure followed him, but could not draw him 
into conversation. He sat with his head bowed 
upon the table before him, his long gray beard 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


127 


sweeping his breast. From that day he grad- 
ually failed in both body and mind. All the 
signs of returning health which had given rise to 
so many fond hopes, now faded away. He be- 
came very weak and feeble ; his form was bent, 
and his head was usually bowed upon his breast. 
He was silent, moody, and forgetful ; often recog- 
nizing with difficulty even the members of his 
own household. Upon each and all, the sorrow 
fell heavily. Beneath the burden of increased 
trouble, each staggered forth with a sadder heart 
to battle with the daily trials and wants which 
beset them on every hand. 

Annetta went quietly to Henry’s room, and 
sadly gathered up his books, pictures, and all 
other articles which had been his ; she packed 
them carefully away, divining that the sight of 
them added to her mother’s grief. With the pre- 
cision of a woman of mature years, she folded 
every garment which he had left, and placed 
them in the depths of a great trunk. When all 
was finished, her fortitude gave way, and she 
buried her face in the pillows and wept long and 
bitterly. With a strong effort at self-control, she 
rose' at last, and bathed her eyes carefully, just as 
she had so often done years ago, when she was 
but' a little child. Smoothing back her disor- 
dered hair, she raised the window, standing there 


128 


ANNETTA ; 


a few moments that the cold air might fan her 
fevered brow and bear away the traces of her 
tears. Regaining a semblance, at least, of calm- 
ness, she went down to see if her mother would 
like her to read to her, or if she could do any 
thing to interest her poor father, who sat for 
hours now, almost immovable in the study. 

To Isabel, the silence and sadness which 
reigned throughout the house was especially op- 
pressive. To her it seemed as if the great king 
of terrors was hovering there, and thoughts of 
death and the grave clung to her as she passed 
through the silent rooms ; for Henry, with all 
his faults, had been the life of the house. Natu- 
rally light-hearted and merry, when not in an 
irritable mood, he would pass in and out of the 
house, up and down stairs and through the halls, 
whistling some lively air, or singing, with his 
clear, full voice, snatches of songs that pleased 
his fancy ; and the quiet which reigned there 
since his departure, seemed like that of death. 
Eugene sought relief in work, constant em- 
ployment seeming to be the only refuge he could 
find from the sadness which often oppressed even 
his own brave heart, save the precious hours 
spent in drawing comfort from that Source which 
never failed. Isabel felt that she, too, must be 
employed. She assured Eugene that she would 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


129 


be happier if she were engaged in something 
which would leave her neither time nor oppor- 
tunity for brooding over the past, and indulging 
in fears for the future. .Accordingly, she went 
earnestly to work, and, through the influence of 
Mr. Reed, soon had a class of pupils with which 
to begin ; and so rapidly did it increase in num- 
bers, that in a short time she was fully occupied. 
She became interested in her new work, and en- 
tered upon it with a determination to succeed. 
She was not long in discovering that her path 
was by no means a flowery one. Many a thorn 
appeared where least expected, and many a 
wound was received which deeply pained her 
sensitive nature. Another source of secret sor- 
row had been found in the manner of Henry’s 
departure, and she often asked herself if she had 
said too much for his proud nature to bear ; and 
yet she felt that she had only pointed out to 
him the plain path of duty. Once she spoke of 
these doubts to Mr. Reed ; but he told her she 
had nothing with which she needed reproach her- 
self. She had tried to perform a sister’s duty, 
and the result was not a fault of her own. She 
tried to take comfort from his words, and sought, 
like ^lugene, to find relief in work. 

Poor, patient Annetta ! To her was it given 
to be the ministering angel of the household, 
9 


130 


ANNETTA. 


Hers was the task of comforting, cheering, and 
helping the dear ones, who were so incapable of 
taking up life’s burdens and bearing them bravely 
onward, — the one seeing life only through the 
mists of a clouded mind, the other held down 
by the strong chains of physical ailment ; for, 
since the departure of her boy, she, too, had 
grown feebler, and more in need of care than 
before ; and to Annetta was given the work to 
which she seemed best adapted, and which she 
faithfully performed, day after day — never grow- 
ing weary with the tasks she undertook, ever 
looking upon all as a labor of love. 




CHAPTER IX. 

bright Spring morning, Isabel started 
; on her accustomed round of teach- 
The air was clear and bracing, and 
she walked rapidly onward, thinking of the duties 
she must accomplish before night. She paused 
before an elegant residence, situated upon one of 
the most fashionable streets in the city. Pass- 
ing up the marble steps that shone white and 
beautiful in the clear light of the morning sun, 
she rang the bell. The summons was answered 
by a servant in livery, who ushered her at once 
into the library. Leaving her alone, he went to 
inform his young mistress of her arrival. An 
easel stood near one of the richly curtained win- 
dows, upon which lay an unfinished picture. Isa- 
bel sat down before it, and contemplated it for 
some moments, as if seeking for signs of im- 
provement in her pupil’s .work. Taking up the 
brush, she was soon at work upon it herself. So 
engrossed did she become in her favorite art, 
that she dic^not notice the entrance of a young 

131 



132 


ANNETTA ; 


lady who advanced and stood behind her chair. 
“ I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Era- 
sure,” said she. 

Isabel looked up from her work with -a smile 
as she replied, “I have not been idle, you see;” 
and she pointed to the picture as she spoke. 

“ O, how beautiful ! how perfect !” exclaimed 
the lady, bending over it in delight. “That is 
just the touch I wanted to give, but could not. 
Ah! there’s nothing like being mistress of the 
art. Miss Erasure. My poor efforts are so weak 
and uncertain.” 

“ Indeed, Miss Mason, I think you have every 
reason to feel encouraged. You are making rapid 
progress. I was quite surprised, myself, when I 
stood before your picture, this morning, and am 
not right sure that I ought to have meddled 
with it,” said the teacher, smiling. 

“I am glad you did. Miss Erasure. Your touch 
was needed to give effect to the picture. I am 
really very grateful for the expression you have 
given to the eyes. They seemed so blank and 
soulless before.” 

As the lesson proceeded, and the picture grew 
beneath the touch of the pupil, aided by sugges- 
tions from the skillful teacher, a pleasant conver- 
sation was kept up between them. 

“By the way. Miss Erasure,” said the young 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


133 


lady, looking up from her work, “I heard a gen- 
tleman speaking of you last night. He used to 
be a friend of yours, he said, and a frequent vis- 
itor at your house. Can you guess his name 
think not,” replied Isabel. “I am not at 
all skillful in guessing, or solving enigmas of any 
kind.” 

“Then, I suppose, I must tell you. It was 
Mr. Winchell. He was telling me that you used 
to live in grand style, in a beautiful mansion- 
house, surrounded by acre after acre of well-cul- 
tivated grounds, beautifully laid out.” And, re- 
suming her pencil, the thoughtless girl talked 
on, all unconscious of the pain she was inflicting 
upon her hearer. “ By the way, do you know,” 
said she, “I always fancied you had seen better 
days } and if there is a class of people for whom 
I feel a deep sympathy, it is those who have 
been reduced from affluence to comparative pov- 
erty.” Foolish girl ! How little she knew of 
the instinctive shrinking of the heart from that 
sympathy which finds vent in allusions to the 
painful subject. 

“ Mr. Winchell and I differ on the subject,” 
continued she. “We really had quite a little 
quarrel about it. I actually told him he was 
heartless. He has no feeling for the misfortunes 
of others ; and, would you believe it, really said 


134 


ANNETTA ; 


that, with the loss of fortune, one actually lost 
caste in society. It may be so ; but I am sure it 
is not right. Mamma says I am young and sim- 
ple, and told Mr. Winchell he was quite right, 
and must not mind all I said, for I was an in- 
dependent, rather willful, little creature. But I 
really do not believe in throwing off one’s friends 
just because they chance to have less of this 
world’s goods than formerly.” 

Isabel made no reply, and her pupil continued 
in a lively, easy manner : 

“ He said you had a sister too, the oddest little 
creature — very staid and womanly now, though 
she was once a sprightly, pretty child. I sup- 
pose you know, of course, that his uncle, Mr. 
Monroe, wanted to buy your father’s place. Mr. 
Winchell told me about it only last evening. He 
said your brother was as proud and haughty and 
distant as a millionaire, and that he and his law- 
yer displayed so much arrogance and pride when- 
ever the subject of a sale was mentioned, that 
they did not succeed in making any bargain at 
all; for which he declares he has owed them a 
grudge ever since. But the funniest part of the 
whole affair is, that Mr. Monroe now insists upon 
it that he never wanted Clifton Place, and would 
not accept it upon any terms. But I ’ve no doubt 
anger and chagrin were the true causes of that 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 35 

remark. A species of sour grapes; don’t you 
think so 

“Very likely,” said Isabel, in a low voice, which 
she vainly strove to keep from trembling. 

Miss Mason was too much absorbed in the 
topic to notice her reply, and went on to say : 
“ I am quite sure I shall never like Mr. Winchell 
again ; though mamma says I am very foolish, 
and insists that I shall treat him well, for he is 
said to be very wealthy. But he is so imperti- 
nent ! Why, he asked me if I knew where you 
lived; and when I said no, he laughed, and said 
it was a little out-of-the-way sort of a place on 
the edge of the town, and even promised to drive 
down that way if I wanted to see the castle. And 
then, upon receiving an indignant reply from me, 
he laughed as if he thought it all a very good 
joke.” She looked up as she finished the last 
sentence, and something in the expression of 
Isabel’s face aroused her to a sudden sense of 
her own imprudence. 

“There!” she exclaimed, impulsively. “I am 
always doing something wrong. I ought not have 
told you this. I have hurt your feelings ; but, 
indeed. Miss Erasure, it was through thought- 
lessness. I ’m so sorry I” And she looked up as 
if' expecting a reply. Isabel’s self-control aided 
her now, though she felt wounded to the heart. 


ANNETTA ; 


136 

“ Never mind it nov^, Miss Mason,” she said, 
her voice trembling upon every word, notwith- 
standing her efforts to appear calm. *‘But, in 
future, let us not refer to the subject.” 

Miss Mason understood the reproof, and men- 
tally resolved not to meddle with other people’s 
affairs. 

“ I am sure,” said she, deprecatingly, “ that you 
are a person of too good sense to mind it. But 
you have never spoken of your sister ! Do, pray, 
tell me ; is she so odd-looking 

The moment the words had escaped her lips 
she inwardly said : “ There ! meddling again !” 

But she waited eagerly for the answer. 

I have never discovered any thing odd-look- 
ing, Miss Mason. She is a very lovable, amiable 
girl. If sorrows have robbed her of any portion 
of the sprightliness or vivacity of her childish 
days, they have compensated her by giving, 
instead, a sweetness of disposition, kindness of 
heart, and gentleness of speech and manner which 
can not be surpassed.” 

She spoke warmly, for her heart was touched ; 
and, though she felt able and willing to endure 
slights herself, she had not schooled herself into 
bearing them in silence when they touched in 
any way the sister she so dearly loved. She 
rose to go as she spoke, and her pupil again 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 37 

expressed regret for the unfortunate turn which 
the conversation had taken. 

Isabel left the house, after giving a few parting 
directions concerning the picture. She felt angry 
with herself for having betrayed her weakness, 
and tried hard to overcome and subdue the pain 
which Miss Mason’s remarks had occasioned. As 
she walked on toward the place where her next 
lesson was to be given, sad thoughts of other 
days came over her, which she vainly sought to 
conquer.* All the scenes of her girlhood passed 
in review before her, and she mentally contrasted 
them with the present. She thought of Annetta 
too, the dear girl, who had never knowil the de- 
lights of a fresh, young life, happy and buoyant 
as hers had once been ; she who, while still a 
child, had acquired womanly ways, and stepped 
from the bright path of childhood into that which 
brings care, sorrow, and unrest. 

As she turned the corner, she came face to 
face with Mr. Winchell. A cold, distant bow 
was exchanged, and each passed the other care- 
lessly by. Isabel had never placed a very high 
estimate upon the character of the man. Still, 
she had not supposed that any one who had so 
often shared the hospitalities of her home could 
have proved quite so ungrateful. The meeting 
was sudden and unppected, and, in her present 


38 


ANNETTA ; 


State of feeling, very unpleasant. She reached 
the place, just then, where she designed making 
her next call, and was soon engaged guiding 
awkward little fingers over the keys of a piano. 
Painfully every false note grated upon her ear; 
and it seemed little less than a species of torture 
to sit quietly there, listening to the discordant 
sounds which the child drew from the instru- 
ment. When the heart is weary, worn, and out 
of tune, what can be more trying than the un- 
musical thumping of a beginner in the great 
science of music.? The endless repetitions, and 
the frequent failures, produced in poor Isabel’s 
heart that day the wildest tumult ; and, with a 
feeling of relief, she left the house. Not daring 
to trust herself to give another lesson in her 
present nervous, excited state, she walked on a 
few blocks, and entered Eugene’s office. He at 
once perceived that her walk had wearied her, or 
that she wanted to be alone, for sonie cause, 
in order to gain the mastery of feelings which 
had, by some means, gained the ascendency. 

Without a word of inquiry or comment, he 
led the way to a small private room beyond the 
main office ; and, closing the door, left her quite 
alone. An hour passed by, and she arose, calm 
and composed, ready for her work again. Eu- 
gene’s Bible lay upon a table beside the little 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


139 


window, which opened upon a kind of court; 
and from the window of a dark, gloomy-looking 
house, an old man, weary with life’s pilgrimage, 
looked out As his time-dimmed eyes wandered 
over the few objects to be seen in that narrow 
court, they fell upon the face of Isabel bending 
over Eugene’s precious Bible. As he looked, 
she arose; and, clasping the book to the heart 
whose tumultuous throbbings of unrest its sweet \ 
consolations had stilled, she kneeled, and, in 
a fervent, heart-felt prayer, poured out all her 
griefs, and asked for strength to toil on till she 
had finished the work He had given her to do. 
This, then, was the secret of her victory over 
self. An hour with God ! Who can estimate its 
value.? The old man’s eyes filled with tears as, 
from his place beside his own window, he mur- 
mured, “God bless that dear young lady!” She 
knew not that any eye had witnessed her devo- 
tions, nor did she pause then to explain any 
of her troubles to Eugene. A few pleasant, 
cheering words were exchanged ; and then smil- 
ingly she turned to the door, saying, cheerfully: 

“Well, Eugene, I am ready now to take up 
my burdens again ; so, for a few hours, good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, sister Belle. If the burdens be- 
come too heavy, come any time and leave a 
portion there.” And he pointed to the little 


140 


ANNETTA; 


room. ^‘This evening,” he added, ^‘we will com- 
pare notes.” 

“And see who has borne the greater burden.?” 

“We will see, rather, who has had greater 
blessings for which to be thankful,” said he. 

“ He is right,” thought Isabel, as she proceeded 
on her way. “In thinking of the ills of life, we 
are too apt to lose sight of the blessings which 
are showered upon us.” 

Her next lesson over, she passed on to the 
third ; and so on, till the last task of the day was 
accomplished, and she was at liberty to go home. 
Annetta met her at the door, gently took off her 
hat and shawl, asked kindly about the duties of 
the day, and urged her to rest quietly on the 
lounge till Eugene came; and, in her pleasant 
way, sought to enliven and cheer her by her 
usual interesting chat, moving about as she 
talked, busying herself in arranging every thing 
for the evening repast, in order that, when Eu- 
gene should come, all would be in readiness. 
There was an air of neatness in all that she did, 
which, together with the cheerfulness which she 
sought to impart, made even that humble room 
look inviting. Isabel watched her as she stepped 
so quickly about, and, with a half-drawn sigh, 
thought of the daily tasks of which the dear 
child said nothing. “May God reward her for 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 141 

all her self-sacrificing care !” was the silent prayer 
wafted from the pure fount of a sister’s heart. 

Days, weeks, and months rolled onward, and 
onward still, till two more years were added to 
the record of the past ; and yet no tidings came of 
Henry. Long weary years had they seemed to 
the hearts waiting so anxiously for some word 
concerning the wanderer. Once, only, had Mr. 
Reed received any intimation of his whereabouts ; 
a note had reached him a short time after he left 
home, stating that he had been sick, and was ac- 
cordingly in need of money, and desired a certain 
sum as a loan. He entreated the lawyer to say 
nothing in regard to him or the required amount, 
till he heard from him again ; adding, that he 
would not have asked this favor had sickness not 
overtaken him. Of his destination or future 
prospects he said nothing further than that he 
should leave the place from which the letter was 
mailed, as soon as the money he asked for should 
be received. 

Mr. Reed wrote to him, entreating him to re- 
turn, setting plainly before him the condition of 
affairs at home ; showing him kindly, yet plainly, 
how truly his conduct was poisoning the happi- 
ness and ruining the health of his friends who so 
truly loved him and sincerely mourned over the 
cruel manner of his desertion. He sent the 


142 


ANNETTA ; 


money, and a sufficient sum in addition to defray 
his expenses home, with the request that it 
should not be looked upon as a loan, assuring 
him that payment would never be required. 
With considerable anxiety he looked for the reply, 
but failed to receive any further tidings concern- 
ing him. Of the whole affair he said nothing, 
since there was really nothing to be drawn from 
it which could be of the least comfort to them. 

“If we only knew he was well and free from 
want or suffering,” was the constant cry of the 
mother’s heart, echoed by every member of her 
household band. At times, the thought came 
over them that possibly he might even now be 
numbered among the dead ; but from it they 
turned with a feeling of dread. 

“ O,” cried Mrs. Erasure one morning, after a 
sleepless night spent in thinking of her absent 
boy, “ can it be that he has sickened and died in 
some far-away land, tended by strangers, and 
buried upon some foreign shore.? How can I en- 
dure the thought .? O my son, my beloved, hand- 
some boy !” 

It required all Annetta’s skillful nursing and 
gentle loving words of kindness and cheer, to 
soothe into comparative rest that storm-tossed, 
troubled spirit. Such scenes were of frequent 
occurrence now; for the long-continued suspense 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


143 


was slowly but surely wearing away all the 
strength of mind and character she had formerly 
possessed, making sad inroads upon the delicate 
constitution. Almost daily, the watchful eyes of 
her devoted children detected some new sign of. 
failing health. Doctor Grey was summoned to 
attend her ; but she turned wearily away from all 
his questionings, saying, “ No, no, I am not ill ; I 
am only tired. Doctor; and O, I want my boy, my 
poor Henry, wandering I know not where !” All 
the good doctor s skill was of no avail ; and, as 
is customary in all cases where other remedies 
fail, a change of scene was recommended. But 
to such a proposition she would not listen for a 
moment. 

“ What !” said she, leave my home ; go away 
from the only, spot where I may ever expect to 
hear from him.? He may come at any moment. 
I am always looking for him ; and what would he 
think were I not here to welcome him back to 
my home and my heart .? How would he then re- 
gard the mother who has watched and waited and 
prayed for him all these weary years .? My place 
is here ; my work, the weary waiting for a step I 
long to hear, and listening to catch the tones of 
that voice for which my heart is hungering every 
hour.” 

Mr. Erasure remained the same immovable, 


144 


ANNETTA ; 


quiet man he had ever been since Henry’s depar- 
ture. Doctor Grey expressed no hope of any 
other change for him now, except a gradual failing 
as he neared the end of life’s journey. “ He 
might,” said the doctor, “ have at last regained a 
portion of his former strength and vitality, had 
he continued to improve as we had reason to 
hope for, judging by the signs so plainly seen 
just before this sad occurrence. The shock was 
too great for the weak state of mind and body, 
and naturally produced evil results. A relapse 
has followed, from which I dare not now encour- 
age you to hope he will ever rally,” 

Ay : the rash step of the thoughtless boy had 
rudely knocked from beneath his father’s totter- 
ing form every prop upon which he leaned ; and 
he had fallen now to a depth from which no 
power save that of his Creator might raise him 
more, and his life henceforth must be but a living 
death. The verdict was passed ; but what a sen- 
tence of doom was this for the ears of those who 
had yearned so earnestly for a far different report ! 
It is so natural for poor human hearts to hope, 
even upon the very verge of despair. Upon poor, 
patient Annetta, the words fell with crushing 
force. Every day, every hour, was she brought 
face to face with the bitter realization of that sen- 
tence. For her, there was no by-path into which 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 45 

she might turn aside when the way seemed 
hedged up with sorrows and her feet grew weary. 
A plain duty lay before her ; and to that path she 
was pointed by its requirements, urged onward 
by the voice of filial affection. Eugene and Isa- 
bel were out in the world, each engaged in the 
active duties of life. For them there was change 
of scene and air, and daily contact with the busy, 
hurrying throng ever pressing through the city 
streets. There were sights for the eye, and 
sounds for the ear, all calculated to draw the 
thoughts away from self, and prevent the heart 
from dwelling upon any one theme ta the exclu- 
sion of all else. For Annetta, there was no such 
change ; few opportunities occurred which served 
to give diversity to the usual routine of her daily 
life. Doctor Grey came in, one bright Spring 
morning, and noticing that her countenance was 
unusually pale, and her step slow and languid, 
proposed that she should accompany him for a 
drive into the country. But as Isabel was absent 
from home, giving lessons, and would not return 
for some hours, Annetta could not be persuaded 
to leave her parents, though Martha, their faith- 
ful, long-tried servant promised to supply every 
want. The kind-hearted doctor bid her a pleasant 
good-bye, and drove at once to Eugene’s office. 
As he came in sight, Eugene dropped his pen 
10 


146 


ANNETTA ; 


and hurried to the door, fearful that something 
had gone wrong at home. Seeing the expression 
of anxiety upon his young friend’s face, the good 
doctor called out cheeringly: *^Good morning, 
Eugene; I’ve just come from your place, and 
found them all getting along very nicely.” 

“Glad to hear it,” responded Eugene, with a 
sense of relief “ Won’t you come in 

“No; I would greatly prefer to have you* come 
out. In fact, I want to borrow an hour or so of 
your time ; and as it is much pleasanter out in the 
open air than in that close office, I propose that 
you step into my buggy, and we can talk as we 
drive along.” Eugene agreed to the doctor’s 
proposition, and going back into the office to give 
a few necessary directions, soon returned and 
drove away with his friend ; for as such he had 
been long accustomed to consider him. “ Eu- 
gene,” said he, “ there is a little matter I would 
like to speak of, and I am going to be very plain. 
You are aware of the fact that I am very frank 
and candid in all my professional affairs ; you will 
find I am equally so with my friends, especially 
when wishing to advise with them.” 

“ I am always grateful for your advice. Doctor ; 
and am ready for a plain, straightforward talk, 
even though you are going to lecture me for my 
misdeeds,” said Eugene, pleasantly. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


147 


I have no fault to find with you, Eugene ; 
right glad am I to say it. The subject of my dis- 
course this morning, is to be your sister Annetta.” 

“ One which is near my heart, I assure you,” 
replied Eugene. 

“Do you know, Eugene, that the poor girl is 
staggering under a burden far too heavy for such 
young shoulders ?” asked he. 

“Yes,” was the reply; “ I know it too well, and 
have striven in vain to relieve her of a portion of 
its weight. But, Doctor, she is never so well sat- 
isfied as when engaged in some service for either 
our father or mother ; nor are they ever so well 
contented as when she is beside them. I know 
she is too closely confined and too constantly 
occupied for her own good ; but how can the evil 
be remedied ? 1 shall be glad of your advice, 

and have thought of consulting you upon that very 
point ; but have been prevented from so doing by 
Annetta herself.” 

“ But it must be remedied ; there 's no question 
about that !” exclaimed the doctor, warmly. 

“But how shall it be done.^” asked Eugene. 

“That is the point to be settled to-day. I 
was quite startled, this morning, by the look of 
weariness and languor which she strove in vain 
to conceal from me. I tried to persuade her to 
drive out with me for an hour or so, but could 


148 


ANNETTA ; 


not prevail upon her to go. She was going to read 
to her mother, she said, for the purpose of draw- 
ing her thoughts away from a bad dream she had 
last night about Henry.” 

He is never absent from her thoughts !” said 
Eugene, sadly. 

“ No ; and when I think of it, I declare I lose 
all patience with the boy. If he must be off to 
try the world’s hard usage for himself, I hope he 
is satisfied ; but there is no reason why he need 
worry his friends till they have n’t an hour’s com- 
fort. He might, at least, have the grace to let 
folks know where he is and the excited doc- 
tor energetically wiped the perspiration from his 
forehead. 

He may not be in the land of the living. Doc- 
tor,” said Eugene, in a low voice. 

“True; it may be so — poor deluded boy!” said 
the doctor, in a mollified tone. 

“ It is the suspense which is wearing away the 
very life of our mother,” said Eugene ; “ she is 
constantly .listening for his step. Every sound 
which falls upon her ear startles her even from 
her sleep. This is one reason why Annetta re- 
mains with her so constantly. She watches her 
slumbers, to guard against sudden noises or sur- 
prises, knowing so well how nervous and excitable 
she has become.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 49 

** Well, but she must not be permitted to wear 
away her own life, as she is doing,” replied the 
doctor. “ I really can not stand by and see 
the child I have loved for years, sacrificing all 
the days of her youth as she seems bent upon 
doing.” 

*‘But, Doctor, she loves to do it, and does not 
look upon it as a sacrifice. I have urged her— - 
so, too, has Isabel — to delegate a portion, at least, 
of her duties to us ; but she delights in feeling 
that she is of use to them, and insists upon it 
that the work in which her sister and I are al- 
ready engaged is as much as we should do.” 

“ I readily agree with her there ; and it is per- 
fectly right and proper for her to look after the 
comfort and welfare of your parents, and see to' 
the interests of the household generally. I do 
not interfere with her rights upon these points. 
I only insist upon her taking some care of her 
own health and spirits at the same time, and 
advise her to share these labors with another. 
She is too young to have so much care. A 
skillful, competent nurse must be procured, who 
can relieve her for a few hours, at least, each 
day.” 

“Your suggestion is a good one. Doctor, if she 
would but consent to the plan. There is also 
another difficulty in the way. Our parents have 


150 


ANNETTA ; 


become so accustomed to the quiet, secluded 
life we have led for a number of years past, that 
they are greatly annoyed by the presence of 
strangers. Father shrinks from the sound of an 
unknown voice. Annetta is aware of this, and, 
in fact, shares the feeling. I am afraid it will 
be something of a task if we set ourselves to 
work to gain the consent of all parties.” 

“We can try the experiment, at least. If it 
does not work well, we must then resort to 
something else, or Isabel must certainly give up 
her present work and share Annetta’s labors.” 

After conversing for some time upon the sub- 
ject, they decided to proceed at once to carry 
their plans into execution. They drove back 
to the office, where they were met by Isabel. 
Eugene stepped out, and the doctor proposed 
taking Isabel home. She accepted the offered 
kindness, and on the way he unfolded to her the 
change which he and Eugene proposed making 
in their household arrangements. She gladly 
seconded their wishes, and promised to use her 
influence with Annetta. Arriving at the gate, 
he sent her in with a message to Annetta to 
the effect that he was waiting for her, and de- 
sired her to come at once, prepared for a ride. 
She soon appeared, though she told him he had 
called her from some very important duties, 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 151 

which she had been obliged to leave now in Isa- 
bel’s hands. 

“Quite right,” said he. “I must not be par- 
tial, you know ; and, having taken Eugene out 
for a drive, and afterward Isabel, whom I picked 
up on the way, it is now your turn.” 

Out into the clear air of the country, where 
the birds made sweet music, and the green grass 
and stately trees gladdened the eyes, he took 
her. And she enjoyed it so greatly that his own 
eyes wore a brighter, happier look as they wit- 
nessed her pleasure. He spoke to her, then, of 
the nurse whom they wished to engage, and the 
changes they desired to bring about. She was 
startled, and very reluctant to yield her work to 
another. ' 

“ We do not ask you to give it up,” said he ; 
“ we only wish you to have an able assistant — 
one who can do for them far more than you are 
able to accomplish.” 

She asked for time to consider the matter; 
for, to her, it seemed very unpleasant and unnat- 
ural to call in a stranger to perform the little 
acts which she had so long been accustomed to 
performing herself. Eugene and Isabel urged 
her to comply, while the good doctor went him- 
self to lay the matter before Mrs. Erasure. 

“Don’t ask me,” said she. “I do not wjsh 


152 ANNETTA; 

to see a stranger; least of all, a professional 
nurse.” 

But the zealous doctor did not yield the point. 
He preferred to let it drop for a few days only, 
leaving them to think over all that had been 
said. 

The next day Mrs. Erasure laid upon the 
lounge in her darkened room. She watched An- 
netta as her head was bent over the work upon 
which she was engaged ; and, for the first time, 
noticed how pale she had grown, and how quiet 
and womanly she had become. She thought of 
the contrast between her life and the days when 
Isabel was her age. 

“ I have been very selfish,” said she, suddenly. 

Annetta looked up in surprise. 

“Yes,” she repeated, “I have been very selfish 
in appropriating your time and strength, my lit- 
tle daughter, all to myself Put down that work, 
Annetta, and go out into the air.” 

“But, mamma ” 

“ I would rather you would go, dear ; I do not 
need you.” 

“ But you may want me soon ; and, besides, I do 
not care to go out. Indeed, mamma, you are not 
selfish. My time is all your own. I am never 
so happy as when of use to you or poor papa.” 

“ It has become a second nature to you, dear. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 153 

You were very sprightly and gay when a little 
child. Ah, my darling, of what have not our sad 
misfortunes robbed you 

“Do not grieve over any thing of that kind, 
mother, dear. I do not regret them, and am 
really happy when I can do any thing to make 
you so.” 

“ I am sure of that, my child ; but your life 
thus far, since our troubles began, has certainly 
been a clouded one. I have grieved so long 
over our poor Flenry’s unknown fate that I fear 
I have been blind to the interests of those 
around me. But go now and take a walk, or lie 
down and rest; I am sure you need it. And 
when Doctor Grey comes, I would like to see 
him alone.” 

The doctor called, in a short time, and went 
at once to Mrs. Erasure’s room. He remained 
for some time; and the result of the conversa- 
tion became apparent when he appeared, the 
following day, with a quiet, pleasant-looking 
woman, whom he duly installed as nurse. An- 
netta stipulated that she was to be permitted to 
continue to read, or otherwise interest her par- 
ents, whenever they wished; to which the doctor 
yielded a ready assent, with the proviso that she 
was to drive out with him at least three times a 
a week, besides taking a short walk every day. 


154 


ANNETTA. 


Eugene and Isabel were well pleased with the 
turn affairs had taken, and thanked the doctor 
warmly for the interest he had shown, and the 
kindness with which he had carried out the proj- 
ect which they felt would be better for them all. 
They hoped to bring back the roses t6 Annetta’s 
pale cheeks, and restore to her voice something 
of the joyous, tuneful ring to which they had 
listened with such pleasure in her childhood’s 
days. That the additional expense entailed addi- 
tional labor, they cared not ; for what was an 
hour’s extra toil compared with the health and 
comfort of those whom they loved 




CHAPTER X. 

HE bleak, dreary month of November 
had passed, and frosty December had 
rolled round again. Day after day 
passed on, each following, in rapid succession, 
the footsteps of its predecessor; and now the 
holidays were at hand. The city streets were 
alive with the hurrying tide of humanity, which 
surged in all directions ; and the shops were 
decked out in holiday attire, looking really gor- 
geous in their lavish displays of articles of all 
descriptions. Here were toys of every style and 
character, some boasting of beauty and delicacy 
of workmanship, others famous for their wonder- 
ful mechanism ; and there might be seen gems 
and jewels flashing in the bright sunlight, while, 
on the other hand, silks, satins, ribbons, flowers, 
and an abundance of articles, both useful and 
ornamental, loom up before our gaze. Nor are 
the demands of the children forgotten in regard 
to the dainties and sweetmeats, which go far 

155 



ANNETTA; 


156 

toward making up a Merry Christmas and 
Happy New-Year to them. A goodly supply 
may be found upon all the corners, and every 
other available space, each and all calculated to 
lure within their charmed precincts the many 
passers*by. 

A gay scene, indeed, did the city streets pre- 
sent. Mothers, with their little children, were 
there, looking bright and happy, while searching 
for the gifts of affection upon which they had 
bestowed so many pleasant thoughts. Fathers 
hurried along, carrying sundry mysterious pack- 
ages ; while among the throng might be seen 
the brothers and sisters too, looking very wise 
and thoughtful. Shop-boys innumerable elbowed 
their way through the crowd, intent upon deliv- 
ering their many packages and bundles, of all 
shapes and sizes, in the shortest space of time 
possible. 

Before a jeweler’s establishment, upon one of 
the principal thoroughfares, stood a young man 
of prepossessing appearance. He paused a mo- 
ment, as if in thought; then, with a faint smile 
just creeping about his lips, he entered the 
store. Glancing at the brilliant array of glitter- 
ing, costly trinkets, temptingly displayed upon 
every side, he selected a heavy, plain gold ring, 
which he handed to a clerk, together with a 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 57 

card, upon which was written the name he 
desired to have engraven upon the inner circle. 
After waiting a short time, he received it again 
from the hands of the polite attendant. Placing 
it in his vest-pocket, he left the store, and was 
soon lost in the crowd. 

The busy hours of the day were all numbered 
at last, and the bells rang out the welcome 
chime which proclaimed release from its duties. 
Busy hands quickly restored order in the shops, 
while in the counting-rooms the clerks looked 
up with a sigh of relief as ledgers, journals, and 
day-books were closed and stowed away within 
the close embrace of the great iron safes. Keys 
were hastily turned ; and the jingling sound has 
a pleasant ring to the ears weary with the bustle 
and confusion attendant upon business hours. 
From out one of the largest mercantile houses 
in the city a young man emerged, and walked 
with rapid step down the street. A certain 
something, which can scarcely be defined, at- 
tracts our attention; and involuntarily we turn 
to bestow a second glance upon the retreating 
figure, and at once recognize him as the individ- 
ual whom we met, some hours previous, in the 
jeweler’s establishment. There is the same firm 
tread, the manly bearing, and pleasant smile; 
but the streets are still echoing to the tread of 


158 


ANNETTA ; 


pedestrians homeward bound, and again we lose 
sight of the young man in whom we have taken 
an interest as yet quite unaccountable. The 
shadows of evening have now settled over the 
city; but yonder comes one whose business it 
is to banish, in part, the gathering darkness. 
Beneath his touch, little jets of flame flash out, 
at regular intervals, along the streets, bidding 
defiance to the gloom of the night. The moon, 
too, asserts her power; and, emerging from the 
white, fleecy clouds which have gathered about 
her, she looks gently down upon the scenes be- 
neath her, heightening and beautifying all by 
her silvery light; and now the stars come forth, 
each resplendent in itself, yet “differing one 
from another in glory.” 

“ How beautiful !” exclaimed Isabel Erasure, as 
she stood at the window, gazing out upon the 
glories of the moonlit scene. Annetta left her 
place by the fire snapping and flashing so cheer- 
ingly, and came to her sister’s side. Isabel 
passed her arm caressingly about Annetta’s slight 
form, as, bending down, she pressed a kiss upon 
the white forehead. “ Shall you be lonely, dear, 
when I am gone she whispered, softly. 

“ Dear, dear Belle, how can you ask was the 
low, trembling response. 

The arm tightened around her, and the head 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 59 

was drawn lovingly to its resting-place upon a 
sister’s breast. “ I know not how to go, my dar- 
ling ; it will be so hard to leave you.” 

Annetta raised her head ; and the dark eyes 
which met Isabel’s, were shining upon her through 
tears. And yet it will not be long, dear sister ; 
you will soon come again,” she said. 

“ That is my comfort, dear ; I shall soon be 
with you again. At least such is my hope.” 

“ And you will be so happy,” murmured An- 
netta. 

A step upon the graveled path startled them. 
Isabel glanced from the window, and a rosy flush 
flashed up from cheek to brow. Annetta kissed 
her hastily, and glided from the room, disappear- 
ing through a side-door as the one opposite 
opened to admit a visitor. Isabel smilingly ad- 
vanced to meet the gentleman who entered ; and, 
as he stepped forward, again we recognize the 
fine-looking young man whom we have now met 
for the third time within the last few hours. Not 
having received the slightest intimation that our 
company is desired, we decline intruding our 
presence upon them, and will endeavor, therefore, 
to content ourselves for the present, waiting till 
time shall develop all that we fain would know. 

After leaving the parlor, Annetta went at once 
to her mother’s room ; she found her sitting in her 


6o 


ANNETTA ; 


easy-chair, with an unopened book on the little 
table beside her. Before the fire, gazing vacantly 
upon the glowing coals, sat her father. 

'‘Well, dear, you have beat a hasty retreat, I 
see,” said Mrs. Erasure. “ Has William come ?” 

“ Yes, mamma ; and I naturally concluded that 
upon the present occasion they had no special 
need of my company.” 

Mrs. Erasure smiled, as, pointing to the book, 
she said : “ What is their loss is my gain ; will 
you read awhile.^” 

“ Certainly, mamma. My time, you know, is 
now and always at your disposal ;” and in a clear, 
well-modulated voice, she began reading aloud. 
Page after page was perused, and chapter after 
chapter completed, before either reader or listener 
evinced signs of weariness. At last the book 
was laid aside, and Annetta remarked that the 
invalid’s hour for retiring had long since passed. 
After bidding her mother an affectionate good- 
night, expressing at the same time a hope that 
she would rest well, and awake with renewed 
strength on the morrow, she went up to her fa- 
ther, and, tenderly passing her arm about his 
neck, bent down and kissed him good-night. In 
a low tone, he murmured a few unintelligible 
words, which fell sadly upon the heart of the de- 
voted daughter. She still stood beside him, 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. l6l 

looking tearfully down upon the gray head, wish- 
ing, O so earnestly, that he would but speak her 
name once more in the old fatherly way for which 
she had yearned so long. She passed her fingers 
gently through the gray locks as she stood mus- 
ing there. He looked up at her then, as if recog- 
nizing the touch of his daughter’s hand, and a 
faint smile hovered for a moment about his lips. 

With a little cry of joy, she repeated the caress, 
saying softly: “Dear father, do speak to Nettie — 
your little Nettie.” The words, together with the 
tone, so like those she had so often used years 
ago, when a little child standing on her stool be- 
side his bed, seemed to arouse within his slum- 
bering soul some long silent chord, which once 
again responded to her touch. He smiled again, 
and took her little trembling hand in his, nodding 
his head as he sometimes did when some little 
act of love and attention recalled, for a time, his 
wandering thoughts. He seemed pleased, and 
looked at her fixedly, as if trying to gather up the 
broken fragments of a shattered memory. She 
knelt down then on ,a stool at his feet, in the 
posture she had loved in the days of childhood. 
The simple act seemed to restore some missing 
link in the chain which bound them to the past ; 
and he knew her as a child again, forgetting the 
years which intervened — the weary years, so blank 


ANNETTA ; 


162 

to him — and now, bending down, he drew her to 
him in the old caressing way, murmuring soflly 
the pet names he had loved so long ago. O, the 
joy which filled her heart ! Almost overcome, 
she leaned her head upon his breast a moment, 
half fearing to move lest it should all pass like a 
fleeting dream. He did not speak again, but sat 
looking at her as she talked to him, apparently 
trying to understand. Evidently the effort wea- 
ried him. Gradually his eyes lost the pleased ex- 
pression which had crept into them as she talked ; 
the lids fell wearily over them ; and, leaning his 
head back upon his chair, like a tired child, he 
fell asleep. 

Mrs. Erasure had witnessed this little scene 
with mingled feelings of joy and sadness. Seeing 
him roused, even for that brief period, from his 
habitual apathy, was in itself a source of joy, and 
from it a little germ of hope sprang up, from 
which she gathered a momentary comfort ; for it 
whispered words of cheer, bidding her trust this 
as the glimmering dawn of returning reason ; 
and yet, with this feeling, came also another 
which spoke only of sadliess, disappointment, 
and depressing fears. 

“ I dare not encourage my poor heart to hope 
for any thing,” said she ; fearing I shall only 
reap bitter disappointment.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 63 

“ Dear mamma,” said Annetta, “ let us be thank- 
ful for even this. It was so sweet to hear his 
voice once more in its natural tone ; and perhaps, 
.little by little, we may lead him on till at last he 
may remember and love us again as of old. What 
a precious boon that would be ! O, may God 
grant it to us !” 

“ Precious, indeed, would it be, my child,” said 
her mother, in a faltering voice. But,” added 
she, “ let me caution you against indulging too 
much in the illusions of hope. We have borne 
so many disappointments, dear, that I almost 
fear to look for any thing beyond that which 
Doctor Grey has told us to expect.” 

“ I believe I am naturally hopeful, mamma.” 

I know it, Annetta. Your hopeful disposi- 
tion and self-sacrificing spirit have shed a happy 
influence about us all since our sad misfortunes. 
May God bless you, darling, for all you have 
been to me ! And I only want to spare you future 
pain by cautioning you now not to look for too 
much in your poor father’s case. Gladly as I 
hail every indication of improvement, be it ever so 
slight, yet with it comes the thought of his weak- 
ened condition, and I can not but feel and real- 
ize — ah, how painfully ! — that there is very little, 
if indeed any, sure foundation upon which to build 
a hope that may not be rudely shattered at last.” 


164 


ANNETTA; 


She spoke sadly, and Annetta felt that it would 
not be wise to prolong the conversation. She 
tried to speak cheerfully as she again reminded 
her of the lateness of the hour ; and, bidding her 
a second good-night, she went at once to her own 
room to wait for Isabel. Hearing the front door 
close at last, she ran lightly down stairs ; and, 
gently opening the parlor door, she peered into 
the room saying, softly, “ May I come in now 

*‘Yes, indeed,” was the ready reply. '‘But 
where have you been so long.?” 

“ Up-stairs, trying to make myself more useful 
than I could possibly have been here,” was An- 
netta’s playful answer. 

Isabel smiled consciously. “You have been 
reading to mamma, I know,” said she. 

“Yes ; until quite late,” replied Annetta. And, 
seating herself by the window, she drew back the 
curtains to admit the light of the moon, and pro- 
ceeded to give Isabel an 'account of their father’s 
words and actions, from which they drew their 
own hopeful conclusions, each rejoicing with the 
other over that one little ray of sunlight, shining 
for a moment from out that darkened mind. 

“ O,” said Isabel, “how glad I am, darling, 
that I may bear with me this sweet hope when 
far away! and then it will serve to comfort you 
in my absence.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 65 

“ Let US not talk now of your absence, dear ; 
I do n’t like to think of it. And, besides, you 
will not go for some time yet.” 

“ I may be called upon to go sooner than we 
expected, darling. But, as it is as yet undecided, 
we will not let the thought cloud our present 
enjoyment of each other’s company.” 

“ Did William see Eugene to-day asked An- 
netta. 

^‘Yes; he went to the office this morning,” 
replied Isabel, dropping her eyes, and smiling 
softly to herself. 

‘‘And he consented, of course, since mamma 
has done so,” continued Annetta. 

“Let this little token testify as to the appro- 
bation of all parties,” replied Isabel, slipping her 
hand into Annetta’s. 

“ This is a sufficient answer,” said Annetta, 
looking down upon the plain gold ring glitter- 
ing in the moonlight. 

“ See,” said Isabel ; and, removing the golden 
circle, she handed it to Annetta, pointing, as she 
did so, to the names engraven inside. There she 
read these words: 

“William to Isabel, December 23, 18—.” 

Tears filled Annetta’s eyes as she looked up 
again, saying: “Now I know, beyond a doubt, 
that I shall lose my sister.” 


i66 


ANNETTA ; 


“Not SO, my darling; rather say you will 
gain a brother,” was Isabel’s quick reply. “And, 
besides, I shall not be far away, you know, and 
expect that I shall be among you every day ; 
and, be assured, dear, I can never, for a moment, 
cease to take the same interest in you, and in 
my dear parents and home, as heretofore. Be- 
lieve me, there shall be no real separation, after 
all, except for the short time spent with Will- 
iam’s friends ; and, even then, we can still be 
one in heart, and will write daily.” 

“I know it, dear, and am glad thei-e will be 
no great gulf between us. William vvill not 
rob us of your love, I am sure. Tell him he 
must be satisfied with the share allotted to him, 
and can not be permitted to interfere with our 
portion.” 

“ Never fear, Annetta. He will add his own 
to mine. You will all be dear to him for my 
sake.” 

“ But what says Eugene to all this ?” 

“That he shall be glad to call William How- 
ard a brother, and that he is willing to trust 
the happiness of his sister in his keeping,” was 
the proud response. 

“Then, surely, we need not fear for your 
future, sister dear; for Eugene knows him so 
well.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 167 

“He does, indeed, having been for years inti- 
mately associated with him at college. And the 
attachment existing between them then, became 
still stronger while traveling for six months in 
each other’s company.” 

“ I believe him to be worthy of you, dear, and 
I am sure that is saying much for him. Indeed, 
it is paying him the highest tribute of praise 
which it is possible for your little sister to 
render.” 

“For which my heart thanks you truly,” re- 
sponded Isabel. “And, indeed,” added she, “I 
want you to love him, Annetta, for his own 
sake, as well as mine.” 

“For yours first, his own afterward,” replied 
Annetta, smiling archly. “I have just confessed 
my belief in his goodness and worth, you know ; 
but I must learn to forgive him for taking you 
from me, before I can find place for him in my 
own heart,” she added. 

“You were always quick to forgive. I think 
I may trust you now. Indeed, Nettie, he is so 
good, one can not help loving him.” 

“Ah, my dear, that is your experience, not 
mmel' said Annetta, playfully. 

We have now learned that a great change 
had come upon Isabel’s life. No longer was it 
bounded by home loves and home duties only. 


i68 


ANNETTA ; 


Her heart, which had ever seemed so full, found 
room enough still for another ; that other open- 
ing up a spring of joy and deep, abiding happi- 
ness therein, such as she had never known. 
William Howard, the gentleman to whom Isabel 
was betrothed, had long been one of Eugene’s 
truest and dearest friends. An attachment had 
sprung up between them based upon the mutual 
respect and esteem with which each regarded the 
other, during the days of their association at col- 
lege. He had made one of the party with whom 
Eugene was traveling at the time of his sudden 
summons home in consequence of his father’s 
misfortunes. We have already seen how he re- 
fused to leave Eugene to retrace his steps in 
loneliness and sorrow, preferring to give up his 
own prospects of an enjoyable trip to the many 
scenes of interest they had so often talked of 
together, for the sake of accompanying his friend 
back to the house of mourning. The intimacy 
had always been kept up ; and in Eugene’s home 
there was ever a welcome for his friends, of 
whom William Howard was chief Isabel’s beauty 
and grace could not fail to attract the attention 
of the young man, while her many virtues and 
noble traits of character soon won their way to 
his, heart. Having his own way to make in the 
world, he resolved to go boldly to work, carving 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 169 

out a place and position, not only for himself, 
but for her. Guarding carefully the precious se- 
cret of his love, he watched and waited until he 
felt that he might at last ask the fair keeper of 
his heart to share with him the little with which 
his efforts, thus far, had been crowned, trusting 
to the future for an increase of the store. 

“ I do not come boasting of wealth and hon- 
ors,” said he; “but O, Isabel, if the love of a 
heart that for years has longed for this hour, if 
the affection which, day after day, has been stead- 
ily gathering strength, is of worth to you now, 
how sweet will be the recompense for all these 
years of watching and waiting !” 

From the depths of her own strong, loving 
heart rose up a kindred feeling which went forth 
to meet his own. Tenderly did every word vi- 
brate o’er the chords which echoed a soft response 
to their thrilling touch. He told her then how 
often he had yearned to share the burdens be- 
neath which he saw she tottered feebly onward, 
or, better still, said he, lift them forever from the 
shoulders that were not strong enough to sup- 
port their weight. Isabel’s delicate constitution 
had, indeed, often threatened seriously to retal- 
iate for the slights put upon it. 

Going about hither and yon, from house to 
house, throughout the city, upon her rounds of 


170 


ANNETTA ; 


teaching, had been too much for her to endure 
so long and so unceasingly; and the signs of 
weakness and increasing debility, now so appar- 
ent to every eye, proved how her strength had 
been overtaxed, and how greatly she needed rest ; 
and now, urged by her lover and friends at home, 
the lessons were given up, the old life was re- 
nounced, and happy in the enjoyment of the 
great blessing vouchsafed to her — “a good man’s 
love” — she looked forward to a life of greater 
peace and joy than she had ventured to hope 
would ever again be hers. And yet, amid the 
peace and new-found happiness which shed their 
luster over her present life, one anxiety oppressed 
her still ; over her bright hopes one cloud yet 
remained to cast a darkening shadow — her par- 
ents. How could she go from them } how could 
she be happy, indeed, while all life’s sweetest 
joys were denied to them ? Mrs. Erasure read 
her thoughts, and, calling her to her side one 
morning, spoke of the coming separation. 

“I shall miss you daily, hourly, dear daugh- 
ter,” she said ; “ but I dare not indulge a thought 
of my own loss. You have been a good child 
always, my darling, and a devoted daughter to 
your parents. You richly deserve this recom- 
pense at last. It would ill become me to be so 
selfish now as to think for a moment of myself 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 171 

Let not a thought of this kind disturb your 
peace. Be happy, and may God watch over and 
keep you, wherever your future lot may be cast !” 

“ Dear, dear mamma, we are in His keeping 
now and ever; and may he comfort and bless 
my dear parents with His own infinite love!” 
exclaimed Isabel, warmly. 

Eugene’s business had prospered, and the 
additional mites which Isabel had been in the 
habit of casting into the family treasury were no 
longer essential. She had often felt it a great 
comfort to know she was aiding her brother in 
their mutual undertaking, and while it pained 
Eugene to recognize the need of such aid, he 
could not but admire the spirit which prompted 
it ; and now they rejoiced together over the suc- 
cess which had attended their steps. 

“How much I owe to you, my brave sister,” 
said Eugene, one evening, as they sat in their 
cozy library, reviewing the ground over which 
they had passed together. 

“ On the contrary, my modest brother, the 
indebtedness is all my own,” said Isabel. 

“I can not regard it in that light,” replied 
he; “for, aside from the pecuniary aid, which 
has helped greatly in procuring comforts for 
our dear parents, I have derived individual ben- 
efits.” 


1/2 


ANNETTA; 


“When and how? I am curious to know!” 
cried Isabel, in surprise. 

“You ask wheiil' said Eugene. “I reply, so 
often that the different times could not now be 
enumerated. You want, also, to know how I 
derived these benefits; and I answer, simply by 
taking pattern from your own brave spirit and 
unfailing courage, and, above all, your hopeful- 
ness. How many, many times have these served 
as an inspiration for me, infusing into my own 
heart new strength and energy. Can you won- 
der now that I say I owe so much to you?” 

“And I, in turn, have attributed much of my 
own success to my good brother’s example,” re- 
plied Isabel, smiling. “The courage and perse- 
vering energy with which you undertook and 
fulfilled your many arduous tasks, proved an 
incentive to labor for me. Indeed, it was this, 
together with the desire to share your burdens, 
perchance lighten them a little, that first led me 
to make an effort to be useful.” 

“Then, it seems we have been a benefit to 
each other,” said Eugene. 

“Yes: it has been a mutual affair altogether, 
and shows how much one may help another, 
without being really conscious of the fact.” 

“And I, in the mean time, have been but a 
drone in the hive,” said Annetta, thoughtfully. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 73 

“Annetta, child, of what are you dreaming.^” 
cried Eugene. 

“I dreaming, brother.? By no means. I am 
fully conscious of all I said, and painfully alive 
to a knowledge of my own weakness and use- 
lessness in the great field of labor of which you 
and Isabel have formed a part.” 

“There is a diversity of gifts, my sister. 
You are no more fitted to enter the arena in 
which I have toiled than I would have been to 
have guided our father’s tottering steps, and 
watched for opportunities for pleasing and inter- 
esting his feeble mind; or, more difficult still, to 
have ministered, with all your tact and tender- 
ness, to our mother’s needs. Believe me, dear, 
of all the duties assigned to us, none have been 
so arduous, or so well and faithfully performed, 
as those which have been accomplished by our 
little Annetta.” And Eugene drew the tearful 
doubter to his side, looking smilingly into the 
face, which wore a grieved expression. 

“Yes,” said Isabel, “Annetta has been an act- 
ive little pattern for us all. Indeed, I ’m not 
sure, Eugene, but that we have both drawn our 
inspiration from her, after all. She worked for 
the good of others long before our own labors 
began.” 

“True: her work took form and shape while 


174 


ANNETTA. 


but a little child, widening and deepening till 
its influence overshadowed all within its bounds. 
Our Annetta has obeyed the injunction, ‘What- 
soever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy 
might.’” And again Eugene looked fondly upon 
the sister beside him. 

“But it has been such a little, my work seems 
to have been like a very small stream, which 
has to travel a long, long distance before it joins 
its tiny waters to the great basin which bears 
upon its bosom the vessels going to and fro in 
the service of the country, doing something to 
benefit the nations of the earth.” 

“Not so, little sister,” replied Isabel. “There’s 
many a little stream which never reaches the 
great ocean, yet not idle, stagnant, or useless.” 

“Yes,” replied Eugene; “it is little things, 
after all, which make up the sum of life’s total. 
Within the very center of our home was needed 
a ministering angel ; and such has been your 
work, little sister — the grand main-spring, after 
all, which has kept all else in motion.” 




CHAPTER XI. 

T is a bright Spring morning. The 
snows of Winter have yielded to the 
balmy breath of Spring. The frozen 
earth has grown moist and green again, and the 
trees are putting forth their tender leaves once 
more; and the air resounds with the notes of 
the birds, returning from their far-off Winter- 
quarters, taking up their accustomed places amid 
the branches of the old trees, which so oft have 
echoed their joyous carols. 

Isabel Erasure stood by her window, gazing 
with interest upon the scenes without, seeking, 
the while, to conquer the feelings of sadness within. 

“A few more hours,” said she, “and I shall be 
far away. And when, ah, when, shall I return 
And the tears drop slowly, one by one, from the 
eyes that should be bright and joyous, this fair 
morning, as nature herself. 

Quietly Annetta entered, and approached her 
sister. 



175 


176 


ANNETTAj 


“ What, tears on your wedding-day !” she cried, 
throwing her arms about her, raising tenderly the 
drooping head, saying, cheerfully: “Why, Isabel, 
I am ashamed of you. What do you suppose 
your liege-lord and master will say to this ab- 
surdity ?” 

“O, Nettie! It pains me so to leave you all!” 

“This will never do,” replied Annetta, ener- 
getically. “One would suppose you were forced 
to marry William Howard entirely against your 
will. Surely you do not repent your choice?” 

“O, Annetta, how can you.?” and the tearful 
eyes were raised, with a reproachful look. 

“Then, don’t lead me to suppose such a thing 
possible by your behavior. I do n’t know, indeed, 
but that William would ask that very question 
himself, should he see such a pair of red, tear- 
swollen eyes as are now exhibited to my gaze.” 
And, with a laugh and playful reminder that 
tearful brides were quite out of date, she kissed 
her tenderly, and hastily left the room. 

With a rapid step she proceeded at once to 
the library. Locking the door, she threw her- 
self upon the lounge, and gave way to a torrent 
of tears. Her forced cheerfulness was gone, her 
playfulness forgotten, and alone she lay there, 
now grieving over the loss of the dear sister, 
her beloved daily companion, the sharer of all 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. I// 

her joys and sorrows. The future stretched itself 
out before her, blank, cold, and cheerless ; and 
she felt now that she had no strength to go for- 
ward, bereft of Isabel’s encouraging words and 
approving smiles. Suddenly her mother’s voice 
was heard calling her name. She sprang up ex- 
claiming : “How selfish! Why should I give 
way, while poor mamma is bearing nobly up 
under burdens greater than mine } I meant to be 
so brave, so cheerful, for her sake; and here am 
I, the first to sink. What a failure!” And, re- 
solving to atone, she hastily obeyed her mother’s 
call. 

Entering the room, she sought to conceal her 
emotion ; but the quick eye of her mother de- 
tected traces of her grief. Extending her arms, 
she took the poor girl to her heart, exclaiming : 
“It is but natural, dear. Don’t try to check 
your feelings. We are giving away a great treas- 
ure to-day. Another link will be missing now.” 

Annetta knew she was thinking, then, of 
Henry, who was the first to break asunder the 
strong chain which had so closely bound the 
family together. For a few moments they wept 
in each other’s arms, then went silently about 
the few remaining preparations for the event of 
the day. Isabel understood Annetta’s manner, 
and, hastily wiping away her tears, she resolved 
12 


178 


ANNETTA ; 


to profit by the lesson she had given with so 
much tact. 

“ Dear child,” said she ; “I am sure she left 
me in such haste just because she could not 
keep back her own tears. She sought to arouse 
and cheer me while in sadness and sorrow her- 
self; and why should I grieve her by my weak- 
ness now 

The parting was of a more serious nature than 
had been anticipated when the marriage was first 
talked of. At that time they proposed going a 
short distance to visit the bridegroom’s friends, 
after which they expected to return and take up 
their residence in the city; and Isabel was re- 
joicing in the thought that every day or two she 
would still see her loved ones. But a great 
change had come upon their prospects. The 
business in which William Howard was engaged 
had increased to such an extent within a few 
years, that branch-houses had been established 
in various places, one of which was located in 
Calcutta. 

The gentleman who had taken charge of this 
post had been compelled to resign his position 
in consequence of impaired health. It was neces- 
sary to supply his place at once, and the charge 
could only be given into the hands of a trusty, 
energetic man, thoroughly posted in the busi- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 79 

ness; and William Howard was selected as the 
proper person. Long he hesitated, not upon his 
own account. He was ready to go wherever he 
was most needed ; but how could he leave Isabel ? 
To this his heart refused to yield willing con- 
sent ; for had he not already waited year after 
year, hoping that each day brought him nearer 
the treasure he longed to call his own ? And 
now must he go, leaving that coveted treasure for 
another weary year.? or should he take her from 
the hearts that would grieve so sorely to give 
her up .? His employers urged him to accept the 
trust, offering a still greater increase of salary. 
At last the whole matter was laid unreservedly 
before Mrs. Erasure and Eugene. At first both 
were painfully surprised, and were uncertain what 
it was best to say 91* do. The mother’s heart 
sank at the thought of parting for a year, pos- 
sibly a longer time, with her beloved daughter; 
but, conquering her own feelings, at last she 
said : 

‘‘William, we have no right to control your 
future. If you go alone, Isabel will continually 
mourn your absence, and it would grieve me to see 
her unhappy. You will both feel keenly the long 
separation, for neither can be happy now without 
the other ; it is but natural. The year will soon 
pass. Promise me you will bring her back at its 


ANNETTA; 


i8o 

close, if at all possible, and I will not withhold 
my consent.” 

Eugene’s feelings coincided with those his 
mother had expressed, and the desired promise 
was given. Isabel yielded, feeling it to be her 
duty now to accompany him wherever his work 
should call him. The hour for the ceremony ar- 
rived, and the family gathered in the little par- 
lor. It was a very quiet wedding, and, in some 
respects, a sad one. The guests were few, — only 
good Doctor Grey and his wife, a pleasant-faced 
old lady, dressed with Quaker-like simplicity and 
neatness ; lawyer Reed, with Mr. and Mrs. 
Moorely, and cousin Godfrey. Mabel, too, was 
there, with her husband, to whom she had been 
married several years. A dear little sunny-haired 
child clung to her dress, whom Isabel called her 
little namesake. Mr. Reed attended Mrs. Era- 
sure, and Godfrey was beside poor Annetta, who 
trembled and looked painfully agitated, notwith- 
standing all her efforts to appear calm and cheer- 
ful. Eugene supported his father’s steps, and 
led him to a quiet seat in a retired corner. Mrs. 
Erasure sighed as she looked over the little com- 
pany assembled there, and thought how different 
was the scene from that which she had so often 
pictured for Isabel in the days of prosperity. She 
remembered with what pride she had thought 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. l8l 

then of her entrance into society, and what a 
dazzling future she had planned for her ; and she 
turned away to conceal her tears, saying, within 
her heart, “And now it all ends in a plain, quiet 
wedding, and a year’s separation.” 

The bride looked very lovely in her neat, pretty 
traveling-dress ; and the groom’s fine, manly form 
and noble bearing appeared to great advantage. 
Each took upon them the holy vows with feelings 
of deep solemnity, and at last all was over. Will- 
iam Howard had won his bride, the mother had 
parted with her daughter, the sisters had wept 
out their last sobbing farewell in each other’s 
arms, the brother had feelingly commended her 
to the care of an all-wise, ever watchful Father, 
and they were gone. The few guests departed 
soon after, and the family were alone. 

Very quiet and lonely seemed the old house 
now. Eugene was in the city all day. Mr. Era- 
sure sat quietly beside his study-table, his head 
usually bowed upon his hands. No change of 
any consequence had passed over him, save that 
his step grew slower and his form more bent. 
At times he appeared to notice that some one 
was missing, and would look about as if search- 
ing for a familiar face, absent now from the 
household band that had become so small and 
quiet of late. Once he looked earnestly at Isa- 


ANNETTA j 


182 

bel’s picture, then turned inquiringly toward An- 
netta for a moment, his eyes reverting back again 
to the picture. She tried to make him under- 
stand why Isabel was not there. He nodded his 
head, smiled vacantly, and resumed the old posi- 
tion beside the study-table; while poor Annetta 
sat down and cried long and bitterly, as she had 
often done before, over the downfall and utter 
ruin of all the fond hopes she had cherished for 
him. 

“ Mamma was right. My hopes all end in dis- 
appointment. Why should I ever indulge them ? 
But O, it is so hard to realize that he will never 
be himself again !” 

Mrs. Erasure spent the greater j^art of the time 
in her own room. She could not remain long 
with her husband in his quiet study. The sight of 
his helplessness and sad mental condition, sitting 
there, hour after hour, in silence, invariably sent 
her weeping from the room. Annetta devoted 
all her time and attention to her parents, and 
household cares. It was a very quiet life. The 
little parlor looked very lonely now, and Annetta 
rarely entered it ; its silence saddened her. Her 
own room, too, spoke unceasingly of the absent ; 
and the feelings which had oppressed her after 
Henry’s departure, came back upon her with 
redoubled force. Time passed very slowly, it 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 83 

seemed. They counted the days that must elapse 
before they might reasonably expect tidings from 
the absent. Within the mother’s heart still lurked 
a hope of Henry’^ ultimate return ; and a promise 
had been exacted of Isabel and her husband, that 
they would diligently seek for him wherever they 
went. 

He may be in Calcutta,” said she. “ He had 
several young companions who started for that 
city some years ago. Do n’t fail to search for my 
poor boy !” 

And now she waited with feverish eagerness 
for news concerning him. At last a letter came ; 
a long, affectionate letter, giving full accounts of 
their journey and safe arrival, and closing with 
loving messages for all. 

“No word about my boy !” murmured Mrs. 
Erasure, as she folded the letter, and sank back 
upon her couch. 

“They have but just arrived, mother; and we 
must give them time, you know,” said Annetta, 
cheerfully. 

“True, daughter; we will be patient. Surely, 
the next will bring some news to cheer us.” 

“Eugene,” said Annetta, one evening, “our 
poor mother still grieves for Henry ; her thoughts 
are always for the absent. It saddens me to find 
that I can do so little to make her happy.” 


184 


ANNETTA ; 


“ My dear little sister, it is very natural that 
she should think oftenest of the absent. But we 
will not be jealous of that.” 

“Jealous ! O no, not for a moment. But I wish 
I could keep her from brooding over her troubles. 
She has been much less cheerful, of late, than 
before Isabel’s marriage.” 

“ Time will do more for her than we ; but God 
more than all,” said Eugene. 

“Yes, I believe that, Eugene; and O, how I 
wish she trusted him as fully, and loved him as 
truly as you do !” 

“ My own heart echoes a response to that wish, 
my sister, and daily do I pray for this precious 
boon for her ; and daily, faith grows stronger and 
clearer, and my soul rests upon the promise that 
whatsoever we ask in faith we shall receive. But 
how is it with you, Annetta dear } Is your own 
heart stayed upon that sure foundation, the Rock 
of Ages .?” 

“ O, Eugene, that is my trouble ! Sometimes I 
feel that my soul is indeed resting securely there, 
and from the precious promises I derive sweet 
comfort and peace ; and yet there are times 
when I dare not so much as lift up my eyes, nor 
take the name of the blessed Jesus upon my lips.” 

“And why, Annetta.? Tell me all, without 
reserve,” said Eugene, kindly. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


185 


“ Faith is so weak — so unstable. I am so easily- 
depressed ; and when moments of sadness come, I 
sink beneath their weight ; and then comes the 
thought of my weakness, and I can not but bow 
my head in shame as I ask myself, of what use 
am I } Why should Christ bless and guide one 
who follows him with such faltering steps ? and 
how can I hope he will even deign to own such a 
weak, trembling disciple ?” 

‘‘This is all wrong, little sister. The promises 
are for the sorrowing, the weak, and the afflicted. 
We are to trust always ; in the darkness as well 
as the light.” 

“I know it, Eugene; and it is the thought 
of my oft-repeated failures in this respect that 
troubles me. I feel so unworthy.” 

“We are all unworthy, darling. Jesus is all 
our righteousness. Study his character, Annetta ; 
for he has said, ‘ Come, learn of me ; for I am 
meek and lowly in heart : and you shall find rest 
unto your soul.’ Can you not see the true beauty 
of that sweet promise ?” 

“ I see it more clearly now than ever before. 
O, Eugene, how you comfort me ! It is that sweet 
true rest that I long for ; my poor soul grows so 
weary, beating against the bars of doubt, mistrust, 
and depressing fears which come over me when 
I am lonely, sad, and weary.” 


ANNETTA ; 


1 86 

Come unto me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest!” repeated 
Eugene, in a low tone, his kindly eyes fixed upon 
his sister. 

“ How precious is that promise 1” murmured she. 

‘'And can not my dear little sister trust such 
a Savior asked he, drawing her tenderly toward 
him. 

“ I do trust him, Eugene ; I have no other 
hope.” 

“ It is faith that justifies,” said he. 

“ Yes ; I am sure of that,” she answered ; “ but 
why am I so weak 

“ Do you not trust too much to your own * 
strength ? Do you not, too often, forget to lean 
entirely upon that arm which alone can sustain 
you — that arm which has conquered both sin and 
death .?” 

“ I fear that I do. I have need of strength 
from above, and a more perfect reliance upon our 
Father.” 

“We are his children, Annetta, and he is 
love ; and will he, then, not guide us in the way 
that shall lead to perfect peace at last ? What 
though the path be rough and toilsome; what 
though thorns are there to pierce, and clouds to 
darken, — shall we despair if he is near.? Shall 
we not still hearken to his voice, and obey when 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 1 87 

he says to us, as to the children of Israel, ^ Go 
forward ?’ ” 

“As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, 
so the Lord is round about his people !” said 
Annetta, reflectively. 

“ Why, then, should his people ever doubt ?” 

“ Why, indeed } O, for a faith that shall never 
waver !” 

“ Faith is the gift of God ; and does he not 
say, ‘ Ask, and ye shall receive ” 

“Yes ; and Jesus is the author and finisher of 
our faith. I will try, Eugene, to look more con- 
fidently to him. I have felt my weakness so 
much more since Isabel left us. Her courage 
helped to support and comfort me.” 

“ God is our refuge, darling ; the support and 
comfort which he gives can never fail. It is 
like ‘the shadow of a great rock in a weary land,’ 
offering shelter and rest to the poor pilgrims 
passing by.” 

“ What a dear, good brother you are to me, 
Eugene ; such a comforter and guide ! You will 
pray every day, won’t you, for your little sister ?” 

“ I never fail to do that, dear ; and I wish I 
had more power to help and comfort you always. 
In our prayers we will always remember each 
other, and all that we love, when we come before 
the Throne of grace. 



CHAPTER XIL 

OOD morning, Annetta,” exclaimed 
Godfrey Moorely, entering the sitting- 
room, unannounced, early one morn- 
ing in October. 

“ Why, cousin Godfrey, how you surprised 
me !” said Annetta, rising to extend a welcoming 
hand to her visitor. 

You didn’t expect company quite so early in 
the day, I am sure; but I didn’t come to break- 
fast, cousin,” said he, smilingly, accepting the 
chair she offered. 

“You would have been very welcome if you 
had. I hope you have no doubt of that fact.” 

“ None whatever ; but I am going to surprise 
you still more. Where is Aunt Maria 

“She has not yet left her room. She has so 
little strength at best, that she seldom comes 
down very early ; and, even then, is obliged to 
lie down during the day.” 

“ And Eugene — has he gone yet 

“ O, yes ; some time ago. He always starts for 
1 88 




ANNETTA. 


189 


his office at an early hour. But what is the 
surprise you speak of.^* I am a little curious to 
know.” 

**Ah, then, Miss Curiosity, I feel greatly in- 
clined to keep you in the dark till aunty comes 
down.” 

“ In that case, I shall at once inform her of 
your arrival, and assist in her toilet in order that 
she may make her appearance forthwith.” And, 
laughingly, she left the room. 

Godfrey was not left long alone; for she soon 
returned, accompanied by her mother. 

“Good morning, aunty,” said Godfrey; and, 
rising, he advanced to meet her, and conducted 
her to an easy-chair beside the window, say- 
ing, “ I had hoped to find you much better and 
stronger now, since the prostrating heat of Sum- 
mer has given place to the cool breezes of Autumn 
again.” 

“ I am getting along very nicely, Godfrey, un- 
der the watchful care of my faithful little nurse.” 

“ But where is Mrs. Price, the nurse whom Dr. 
Grey installed some time ago.^” 

“ She was with us nearly a year. Sickness in 
her own family called her away for a time, and 
I have not really needed her since. Indeed, the 
greater part of the time she was nurse in name 
only, for Annetta was always at hand to attend 


ANNETTA; 


190 

in person to all our wants.” And she looked 
fondly upon the downcast face of her daughter. 
“ But what news from home she asked, turning 
again to Godfrey. 

“They are all well, and send kindest regards 
to you all. Mabel is home on a visit, and will 
come to see you herself before she returns to her 

own home in B . But when did you hear 

last from Isabel 

“We received a letter only yesterday. They 
have now been in Calcutta nearly six long 
months ; and the dear girl is quite homesick, and 
yearns for a sight of the home faces once more. 
William thinks he can arrange his affairs to come 
home early in the Spring, and we are all looking 
forward with delight to the reunion in prospect.” 

“And I, in all probability, shall be far away at 
that time,” said Godfrey. 

“You! Why, where do you propose going, 
Godfrey.?” asked Mrs. Brasure, in surprise, while 
Annetta sat staring with wide-open eyes. 

“ Did I not say, cousin, that I should surprise 
you ?” 

“Yes ; but I did not suppose it was any thing 
of that kind. I fancied we were going to have 
another wedding,” said Annetta, archly. 

“And was waiting impatiently for an invita- 
tion, I suppose ?” laughed Godfrey. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. I9I 

“ Exactly ; and feel greatly disappointed,” re- 
turned she. 

“For which I am heartily sorry,” he replied, 
bowing with mock gravity. 

“But, Godfrey,” said Mrs. Erasure, “you have 
not yet told us where you are going.” 

“Sure enough,” said Annetta. “ Do enlighten 
us as to what particular portion of the globe you , 
intend directing your steps.” 

“ I do not know that I shall remain very long 
in any one portion, cousin. I propose traveling 
through the countries of the far East in com- 
pany with Mr. Reed.” 

Mrs. Erasure sighed, and a look of sadness 
passed over her face as she thought of the sud- 
den termination of Eugene’s long-talked-of jour- 
ney, around which had clustered so many bright 
dreams and joyous anticipations. 

“ Mr. Reed is very anxious to visit the Holy 
Land ; and I, too, have long cherished the same 
desire,” continued Godfrey. 

“ I am glad, my dear nephew, that you are 
about to enjoy this privilege, and I hope that 
your anticipations may meet with happier real- 
izations that did my poor Eugene’s,” said Mrs. 
Erasure, her voice trembling as the last sentence 
fell from her lips. 

A silence ensued, for the words recalled many 


192 


ANNETTA ; 


painful memories in the hearts of all present. 
Anxious to dispel the saddening influence which 
seemed casting its spell over them, Annetta was 
the first to speak ; and, turning to Godfrey, said, 
“ Is not this very sudden, cousin ?” 

“ I did not expect to go for a year or so yet, 
until a few days ago, and my preparations have 
been very hastily made.” 

“And when do you expect to start ?” 

“To-day ; and I came this morning to say fare- 
well. Mr. Reed agreed to meet me here, as he, 
too, wished to see you before leaving.” 

In a short time Mr. Reed came in, and, after 
conversing a while about the expected journey, 
together with affairs connected more intimately 
with the interests of the family, from whom they 
were about to part, they took their leave, bearing 
with them many kind wishes from Mrs. Erasure 
and Annetta. They called to see Eugene, and 
spent a pleasant hour in his private office. If 
the proposed trip awakened old memories and 
revived the bright dreams and hopes of other 
days, if the old longings came back to Eugene 
then, he silently conquered them all, nobly thrust- 
ing them back, placing duty and filial affection 
in advance of all else. He accompanied them to 
the steamer, remaining till the last signal for 
departure was given. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 193 

Farewell !” cried he. “ May God grant you a 
prosperous voyage and a safe return!” 

Slowly and thoughtfully he walked back to his 
office, striving to overcome the feeling of loneli- 
ness which crept over him. 

“How much I shall miss Mr. Reed!” thought 
he. “ He has been such a kind, true friend to 
me. To whom shall I go now for counsel and 
encouragement.?” Deep within his heart a still 
small voice whispered the response, “ To our 
Father.” 

“Yes,” said Eugene; “a present help in every 
time of need.” 

Arriving at the office again, he found Doctor 
Grey awaiting his return. After exchanging the 
usual salutations, he acquainted the doctor of 
the departure of his friends. 

“ Glad to hear it ; wish you were going along,” 
said the doctor. “ There ’s nothing like cutting 
loose from the old tread-mill of this busy life, 
and forgetting the duties and cares of our work- 
a-day world — growing young and fresh and act- 
ive through the influence of a little wholesome 
freedom.” 

Eugene sighed, involuntarily, as he thought 
how difficult it was to turn aside from the strong 
current ever sweeping onward and onward, bear- 
ing upon its strong bosom many a weary one, 

13 


194 


ANNETTA ; 


who would gladly pause for a little while at least, 
to enjoy a taste of that rest and freedom of which 
the good doctor spoke. 

“ Never mind, my young friend,” said the doc- 
tor, as if reading his thoughts. “‘All ’s well that 
ends well let us hope ‘ there ’s a good time 
coming.’ I just dropped in to ask for the latest 
news concerning Isabel and her husband, not 
having time this morning to drive out to your 
home.” 

Receiving a good account of the absent ones, 
the worthy doctor turned to go. Eugene ac- 
companied him to the buggy. As he took up 
the reins, he turned back to say, in his kind 
fatherly way : 

“ By the way, Eugene, do n’t confine yourself 
too closely in that office. I protest against your 
spending ten hours a day over those musty old 
books. If I had n’t such a list of professional 
calls to make this morning, I should shorten the 
time by two hours at least. I ’ll be along to- 
morrow, most likely, for that very purpose.” 

“You are very kind. Doctor, and thoughtful as 
ever. How shall I ever repay 3'ou said Eugene. 

“ Tut, tut, young man, that ’s my look out. It ’s 
my business to look after you, and my pleasure ; 
so do n’t interfere. I think we shall have a shower 
to-day, and a drive into the country will be pleas- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


195 


ant and refreshing. Tell Annetta I will stop for 
her this evening, if I can get through my round 
of visits in time. There’s a great deal of sick- 
ness in the city just now ; take care of yourself, 
Eugene. Good morning and, with a pleasant 
nod, he drove away. 

“ That ’s one good friend left, at any rate,” said 
Eugene. “ How naturally the heart clings to 
those who have known and loved us through all 
the vicissitudes of this changeful life ! They seem 
like those of one’s own household, and, as such, 
command a deeper respect and warmer love than 
the friends of to-day. At least, such is my own 
experience ; for to none can I turn with such 
feelings of confidence and trust and real boyish 
dependence as to Doctor Grey and Mr. Reed. 
As for the ten hour’s work to which the consid- 
erate doctor objects, I do n’t see how it can be 
avoided, especially just now, for we are very busy. 
Well, well : perhaps there may be a good time 
coming, after all ; we can not tell, at present. 
Like my faithful little sister, Annetta, I must obey 
the voice of duty, and 

“ ‘ Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait.’ ” 

Letters came frequently from Isabel and her 
husband, each containing glowing accounts of the 
life of usefulness which they had been trying to 


196 


ANNETTA ; 


lead while so far away from the dear friends at 
home. To Eugene and Annetta these tidings 
were particularly gratifying. They rejoiced to 
know that, though strangers in a strange land, 
they still found a way to serve the blessed Master, 
and improve the talents which He had given 
them ; and very often did Annetta receive com- 
fort and strength from the little white-winged 
messengers wafted from Isabefs distant home. 
And O, how many, many prayers ascended on 
high from the heart of each for the other ! for, 
though separated, they still knelt in supplication 
to the same God who watched over all. She 
comforts and helps me still,” said Annetta. 
“ Dear Isabel, how I long to see her once more !” 

Mrs. Erasure had been waiting long and anx- 
iously for some information concerning her son ; 
but vain were her hopes and expectations. After 
long and fruitless search, Isabel was obliged to 
write that no traces whatever could be found in 
Calcutta. So eagerly had the patient mother 
waited for his return, so anxiously and hopefully 
had she yearned for his presence, day after day, 
month after month, till these had merged them- 
selves into years, she could not even now re- 
sign the hope, without which she felt she must 
sink in despair. The Winter had passed, Spring 
had come again, and Isabel had been gone a 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


197 


year; and now the family were looking forward 
to the promised reunion. To Isabel the time 
had seemed very long, and she yearned for the 
sound of the voices she loved, and rejoiced in 
the thought of soon seeing, once more, the faces 
so indelibly stamped upon her heart. With a 
glad smile, she sat down one morning to write 
them the news over which she was already re- 
joicing herself, telling them they would leave 
Calcutta the day following that upon which the 
letter was written. 

“ Going home !” said she. “ O, Will, how 
sweetly those words come to me now ; how full 
of deep precious meaning !” 

They are indeed, dear wife ; and I am thankful 
that I have been able to keep the promise I made 
to your mother and Eugene, when they consented 
to give me the priceless treasure I asked at their 
hands. You have borne the separation nobly. 
Belle, and I am proud of you.” 

The remaining preparations were completed, 
and they bade adieu to the few friends they had 
gathered about them, and started for the dear old 
home. A young man connected with the firm 
by which William Howard had been sent to Cal- 
cutta, had business in their native city ; and, by 
invitation of both William and Isabel, resolved to 
make one of their party. 


ig8 


ANNETTA; 


“Indeed, Mr. Weber,” said Isabel, “you were 
so kind to us, when we came as strangers to your 
city, we shall be very glad to make some return,” 

“And will try to make you feel at home among 
us,” said William. 

“ Thank you kindly, my friends ; I appreciate 
and frankly accept your offer,” said Mr. Weber. 
“ But,” continued he, “ I hope you have not bid 
Calcutta a final adieu. Surely, after you have 
seen your friends and enjoyed a seasoQ of rest 
and recreation among them, you will resume your 
places here.” 

“That is, as yet, undecided. I am not sure 
that my wife will ever again be willing to give up 
home and its sweet associations, to follow the 
steps of her husband !” said William, with an arch 
glance at Isabel. 

“ I hope,” said she, “ that my husband believes 
me willing to go wherever duty calls.” 

“Thank you, dear Belle. I do indeed believe 
that those sentiments, so nobly expressed, will 
be carried out to the letter, if need be.” 

The homeward journey promised to be a pleas- 
ant one ; and, as each day drew near its close, 
Isabel would watch the sun disappearing from 
view, and, with a feeling of thankfulness, often 
said, “One day nearer home.” 

“Yes,” said her husband one evening, as they 




t 




OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


199 


sat upon the deck, “ I wonder if this feeling is 
not akin to that which fills the heart of the dying 
Christian, longing to gain the home of the soul.” 

“To the tempest-tossed mariner, upon the 
broad ocean of life, I have no doubt the thought 
of that rest which remaineth for the j^eople of 
God is very precious. Indeed, I think tliat we, 
in our present state, can have no idea how deep 
and pure and unutterable the feeling must be,” 
said Isabel, with a thoughtful look. 

“ I have often tried to imagine it,” replied 
William. “And, in speaking of our earthly 
homes, my thoughts frequently revert to that 
above ; and at evening I love to repeat that sweet 
hymn : 

‘At eve I pitch my moving tent, 

A day’s march nearer home.’ 

It is a precious thought; and how many are, 
indeed, nearer that eternal home than they think ! 
How important it is that the soul be prepared to 
depart at any moment, ready to obey with joy 
the Master’s call !” 

“Even now,” said William, “as I look over the 
side of this vessel, and see the great waves surg- 
ing madly onward, leaping high in foam-crested 
billows, and anon sinking into the great depths 
again, I can not but feel what helpless creatures 
we are, entirely dependent upon a higher power. 


200 


ANNETTA ; 


See, Isabel, how the waters leap and foam ; how, 
like maddened creatures of life, they throng 
around the vessel. Ah, how many dangers sur- 
round us even now ! and my heart asks itself the 
solemn question : ‘Am I prepared to meet my 
God?* P'or, O Isabel, we ourselves may, indeed, 
be, .this night, a day’s march nearer our heavenly 
home !” 

“It may be so, dear husband ; we know not 
what a day or an hour may bring forth ; we can 
only trust in Him who doeth all things well.” 

“And you can do this, Isabel ; you can leave 
all in the hands of God, waiting fearlessly the 
issue ?” 

“I feel that I can, dear Will; why should I 
not ? Why should we ever fear to trust One who 
is all goodness and love i*” 

“But, if storms arise, if the seas threaten to 
overwhelm us,” questioned he, bending an earnest 
look upon the sweet face beside him; “what if 
the powers of the great deep rise up against us ?” 

For answer she feelingly repeated, in a low, 
soft tone, the words of a hymn she loved : 

“ The tempest heard his voice, 

The winds obeyed his will, 

The elements withheld their noise, 

And all the floods were still. 

Then while o’er seas we roam, 

Thy goodness. Lord, we see ; 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


201 


Though distant from our native home, 

We are not far from thee.” 

" Thank God for such a sweet assurance !” said 
her husband. “ Come what may, we are his crea- 
tures, trusting implicitly in his divine will. Do 
you know, dear, that to Eugene I owe a debt of 
gratitude a life-time can never repay.?” 

Why, no. Will ; he never told me of any 
favor he did you, nor have you ever spoken of 
any particular act ; at least, nothing more than 
the ordinary deeds of kindness often shown 
toward each other during the days of your col- 
lege life.” 

‘‘ I was never a very wild boy, Isabel — at least 
not in the common acceptation of the term — but 
I was a thoughtless one, easily influenced, and 
in a fair way to be led astray by companions 
more giddy, if possible, than myself. Eugene 
interested himself in me with all a brother’s kind- 
ness. He afterward told me that, in the days of 
our early acquaintance, he saw much in me that 
needed a guiding hand ; and it was through his 
instrumentality that I became a Christian.” 

O, my husband, what a precious tribute of 
praise is this to my dear brother !” exclaimed 
Isabel. 

“Yes ; to him, under God, do I owe all that 
I am. I had looked upon religion as a some- 


202 


ANNETTA. 


thing to be inquired into, and sought for at some 
future time, and had even regarded it as some- 
thing which must necessarily throw a gloom over 
life, and resolved to trust to morality alone till 
youth gave place to the advancing steps of age ; 
at which time I fancied I should feel more in- 
clined to make preparation for another world. 

“Ah, Isabel, how often do the young make just 
such a mistake, and of how much real, true hap- 
piness does the error rob them ! Eugene’s cheer- 
fulness, geniality of manner, and kindness of 
heart, first commanded respect and esteem. His 
gentleness to others, and deep, earnest piety, 
afterward won my heart; and with feelings of 
deepest interest I watched him, contrasting his 
daily life and deportment at school, and else- 
where, with his earnest, touching appeals, so 
often made to me, and I could find no inconsis- 
tencies. He lived up to the religion he pro- 
fessed; and I could not but see that, instead of 
the gloom by which I had imagined the Christian 
to be overshadowed, he enjoyed perfect sunshine. 

^ Why, Will,’ said he to me, ‘ how can one be 
unhappy who is at peace with God and all the 
world .?’ The impressions made upon my heart 
and ^ mind could not be effaced, and to-day I 
thank God for all that Eugene Erasure has been 
to me.” 



CHAPTER XIII. 

the vessel steadily plowed her on- 
ard way, hourly drawing nearer her 
;stined port, her passengers eagerly 
waited to catch the cry which should bespeak 
land in the distance. In the mean time, happy 
hearts and willing hands were busy at home, 
planning, devising, and executing. Annetta and 
her indefatigable assistant, the faithful Martha, 
were here, there, and every-where. Mrs. Erasure 
smiled as she watched the careful preparations. 

“Why, Nettie dear,” said she, “you are mak- 
ing the poor old place look really tasteful and 
pretty; but I am afraid you will tire yourself 
out.” 

“No, indeed, mamma, I enjoy it; and, besides, 
I haven’t time now to think of myself There, 
see, do n’t you admire that little basket .?” And 
she pointed to the moss-covered, rustic basket 
in which she had been arranging a quantity of 
ivy and ferns. 

“ Beautiful !” said her mother, bending down to 

203 



204 


■^NNETTA ; 


note more closely the delicate beauty of the tiny 
sprays ^'ust peeping beyond the edge. 

“ I am going to hang it in Isabel’s room, 
mamma. You know how she admires any thing 
which speaks of nature. Then I shall make an- 
other for the parlor ; and, by the way, I must 
manufacture a few more of those pretty little 
frames for the pictures Isabel drew so long ago. 
I mean to surprise her. Eugene brought me a 
fine lot of cones for that purpose.” And the 
busy fingers went from one employment to an- 
other, leaving traces of her neatness and skill 
upon every side. 

Eugene had spent many an hour in the gar- 
den ; and, truly, it presented an inviting appear- 
ance. Special attention had been bestowed upon 
Isabel’s favorite flowers ; and now they looked 
thrifty, fresh and beautiful. Even the old dog. 
Rover, that for so many years had been iden- 
tified with the family, appeared to comprehend 
that something unusual was going on, and frisked 
about from the house to the garden and back 
again as if quite forgetful of his age, ignoring 
altogether the rug upon which he had long been 
in the habit of spending the greater part of the 
time. 

One evening, Eugene came home an hour ear- 
lier than usual. Going at once to his mother’s 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


205 


room, where he knew he would find both mother 
and sister, he informed them that important busi- 
ness called him to a small town not far from 
the port for which the vessel, upon which the ex- 
pected friends had taken passage, was bound. 

“I think,” said he, ‘‘the trip will be beneficial. 
Doctor Grey advises me to go by all means. 
Having completed my business, which will re- 
quire but a few hours of my time, I can then go 
on and meet Isabel and Will, and return in their 
company.” 

“ It will be a pleasant change for you, Eugene, 
and a delightful surprise to them. I, too, would 
advise you to go,” said Mrs. Erasure. 

“ What says Annetta .?” asked he, turning to her. 

“I think, with mamma, that it would prove a 
very delightful surprise, indeed, to our dear sister 
and brother to meet at once with some one from 
home. I fancy now that I see Belle’s eyes as 
she first catches sight of Eugene. But do bring 
them with all possible speed to us,” she con- 
tinued, smilingly, as she took up the work she 
had dropped. “And one thing more, brother,” 
she added, as he turned to leave the room ; 
“send down a tuner from the city early to-mor- 
row. We must have the piano put in perfect 
order. O, I long to see the dear girl’s fingers 
gliding once again over the long-silent keys!” 


206 


ANNETTA ; 


“Yes, indeed, we will have our family concerts 
again, as in the days of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Will 
is a fine tenor singer. I will leave word this 
evening with an excellent tuner, and have the 
instrument thoroughly repaired.” 

And so Eugene left on the evening train, 
promising to telegraph as soon as the vessel 
arrived and the dear ones were safe on shore. 
The hours passed quickly by; and the day fol- 
lowing that upon which Eugene left them, the 
expected telegram was received, stating that the 
travelers had arrived in safety and health, and 
would be at home by eight o’clock that evening. 

William and Isabel Howard, in company with 
their young friend, Lawrence Weber, stood upon 
the deck, seeking to catch the first sight of their 
native land. And when at last they were, safely 
“anchored in the harbor,” a feeling of thankful- 
ness was mingled with their rejoicings. As they 
stood waiting for their turn to leave the vessel, 
their attention was attracted toward some one 
who was making signals, evidently intended for 
them. Upon looking more closely, Isabel clasped 
her hands in an ecstasy of delight as she ex- 
claimed : “ O, Will, it is Eugene! How good, 
how kind of him, to meet us here!” 

A few moments later, and the brother and 
sister were clasped in a close embrace; and to 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 20 ^ 

William, too, was extended a brother’s warm wel- 
come home. 

Mr. Weber stood by, gazing with feelings of 
interest upon the touching scene. 

“ What a sweet welcome is this !” thought he. 
“ No wonder Mrs. Howard has yearned for her 
home and her friends. What an affectionate 
family !” 

At this moment William turned and introduced 
him to Eugene, who received him in a friendly, 
cordial manner, which at once won his esteem. 

“ Mrs. Howard may well be proud of her 
brother,” said he to William. “ I am really anx- 
ious now to see also the sister, of whom she 
speaks so often.” 

“ Our little Annetta ! Yes, she is a sister of 
whom Isabel is justly fond. She is worthy of 
all the love lavished upon her.” 

“ So I should judge, from what your wife has 
told me concerning her.” 

“ And now,” said Eugene, turning to them, 
“ our mother desired me to bring you, in all haste, 
to them. The next train leaves in an hour. We 
have but just time to reach it.” 

Entering a carriage in waiting, the party started 
at once for the depot. Procuring desirable seats, 
our friends were soon engaged in animated con- 
versation. Questions innumerable were asked 


208 


ANNETTA ; 


and answered ; and, wholly absorbed in each other, 
they scarcely noted the lapse of time. Onward 
and onward sped the train, pausing now and 
then to leave or receive passengers. Onward, 
still onward, toward the home where the loved 
ones were waiting for them, counting the very 
moments as they passed all too slowly by. 

“ Half-past seven !” said Annetta, looking up 
at the little French clock, which kept up its con- 
tinual tick, tick, tick, regardless of the impatience 
of those who so closely watched it, wishing that 
for once that swinging pendulum would move 
with increased speed. “ One-half hour more, 
mamma! O, that it were past !” said she. 

“It will soon be gone, daughter; only a lit- 
tle patience, now I” was the mother’s smiling 
response. 

A few moments Annetta sat watching the gath- 
ering darkness ; then busied herself in lighting 
up the house, till the whole cast a look of bright- 
ness out upon the night — which seemed to defy 
its power. 

“ Only fifteen minutes now I” said she, as she 
ran down to the gate. Standing there a little 
while, she thought of the bountiful repast upon 
which she had exerted all her skill, aided by the 
willing Martha; and, returning hastily to the 
house, she again repaired to the well-lighted 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 209 

dining-room, and looked, for the third time at 
least, to see that every thing was complete. 

“Are you . sure there’s nothing wanting, 
Martha.? and will the coffee be just right?” she 
asked. 

“O yes. Miss Nettie ; just you rest easy, now. 

I ’m sure every thing is in splendid order. Won’t 
Miss Isabel be delighted, though ?” and the faith- 
ful servant’s eyes sparkled in anticipation of the 
praises she was sure of receiving from her kind 
young lady, as she still called her. 

Eight o’clock ! Annetta’s heart throbbed, and 
her feet refused to be still. She went from her 
mother’s chair to the window, and from the win- 
dow to the lounge where her father reclined, 
and tried for the twentieth time to make him 
understand the cause of so much commotion. 
He looked at the lights, and smiled ; and once, as 
Annetta knelt beside him, he stroked her hair 
softly, and called her “ Rosebud,” as he often did ; 
for to him the past appeared nearer and more 
real than the present. 

“ Surely, he will know her when she comes ! 
Do n’t you think so, mamma?” she asked, glanc- 
ing uneasily at the quiet figure lying there, so 
unconscious of the joy in store for them. 

“ I can not tell, my child ; but I am afraid not. 
But, dear, do n’t let that thought cloud your 

14 


210 


ANNETTA; 


happiness now ; it will be of no avail. Do try 
for once to banish it !” 

“ I can not ; it is too closely woven with every 
thought of my heart. In every joy, every sorrow, 
it is ever present with me ; and it can never be 
otherwise. I do not expect it. Quarter after 
eight !” she added. “ Surely they should be here 
now.” 

“We must make allowance for some delay, 
dear,” said Mrs. Erasure. 

Half-past eight ; and Annetta again stood at 
the gate, gazing anxiously in the direction they 
must come. Once, the sound of carriage wheels 
was heard; she listened intently. Yes, they were 
approaching nearer and nearer, and now in sight ! 
O joy ! soon the dear sister would be in her arms. 
Her heart bounded, and, half unconsciously, she 
opened the gate and stepped out. The carriage 
was almost beside her now, and she looked up to 
catch the first loving look from Isabel’s speaking 
eyes. But no ; the vehicle passed on, and her 
eager gaze met only the surprised glance of a 
stranger, who leaned forward as he passed, as if 
wondering at the brilliantly lighted house and the 
white-robed figure standing there. She was sadly 
disappointed, and repressed with difficulty the 
tears which sprang to her eyes. 

“This is childish!” said she, making an effort 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


2II 


to conquer her restlessness. “ There may have 
been some change made in time, or the train may 
have been unavoidably detained. Why can I not 
be more patient And, with slow, reluctant steps, 
she returned to the house, entering the parlor 
just as the clock struck nine. Glancing at her 
mother, she noticed that a look of anxiety rested 
upon her countenance, robbing it of the pleased 
expression of expectancy which it had worn all 
day ; and as the moments dragged themselves 
slowly along, the expression deepened and grew 
more and more apparent ; and, at last, unable 
longer to remain quiet and composed, she, too, 
left her seat, and stood, first at the door and then 
upon the porch, while poor, anxious, restless An- 
netta again ran down to the gate for another 
searching look toward the city. An hour passed 
on, and the suspense grew momentarily more 
painful. 

“ Surely, mamma,” said Annetta, “ there cer- 
tainly must have been a change of time of which 
we have not been apprised 1” 

“In that case, I am sure Eugene would have 
telegraphed. It is not like him to leave us in 
suspense,” replied Mrs. Erasure, with a long- 
drawn sigh. 

Within the little parlor they still waited and 
watched ; now at the window, now at the door 


212 


ANNETTA ; 


and upon the porch, and anon at the gate. The 
slow, even ticking of the clock alone broke the 
silence ; for so great was the weight pressing 
now upon their hearts that each felt it useless to 
attempt to speak words of encouragement and 
cheer. Mr. Erasure slept quietly as a child, 
upon the lounge ; and poor old Martha bewailed 
the spoiled coffee and overdone chicken, till, 
tired out at last, she sat dozing beside the 
kitchen-stove, from which the fire had long since 
gone out. 

“ O, mother !” cried Annetta, bursting into a 
passion of tears as the midnight chimes broke 
the deep silence of the night. 

^‘We are all in the hands of God, my child. 
To him only can we look ; to him must we trust 
every thing !” murmured Mrs. Erasure, passing 
her arm around the trembling girl. 

“And he will care for his own. You believe 
this, dear mother 

“ I do, indeed. O, my darling, I have long 
watched the growth of this religion in the hearts 
of my children. I have noted, carefully, its effect 
upon the daily life of each, and, I assure you, it 
has not been without its effect upon me. I am 
weak and untaught in these matters ; I have 
long neglected the way of life ; but to Him only 
do I now look for strength.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 21 3 

“ O, thank God ! dear, dear mother !” exclaimed 
Annetta, in the fullness of her heart. 

“Yes, Annetta, dear child, I do indeed thank 
God for having led me to himself through the 
instrumentality of my children.’' 

“And, mamma,” said Annetta, “it was the 
purity of Eugene’s daily life and noble example, 
together with his earnest appeals, which won 
Isabel and me to the blessed Savior.” 

“ My noble boy ! Great will be his reward in 
that heavenly kingdom toward which we are all 
hastening,” was the earnest reply, direct from the 
full heart of the fond mother. 

The long night has at last passed away. The 
gray dawn of morning steals faintly, coldly over 
all ; a dreary duskiness wraps every thing in a 
dull, hazy gloom. But see : the sky grows brighter 
now ; the shadows are receding before the light 
of morning, which steadily advances, creeping up 
from the distant hills, heralding the coming of 
the mighty king of day. 

Martha roused herself, and, looking about, was 
for a moment startled to find herself in the kitchen, 
with the untasted supper still upon the stove. 
Shaking off the lethargy of sleep, she rose and 
passed into the dining-room. There stood the 
well-spread table, just as Annetta’s tasteful busy 
hands .had left it, with a feeling of excusable. 


214 


ANNETTA. 


happy pride in her loving heart. The glare of 
the lights, mingled with the gray dreariness of 
morning, cast a fitful, shadowy glimmer over the 
scene. Quietly she extinguished the lights, and, 
passing into the parlor, looked startled, almost 
frightened, as the pale faces and anxious eyes of 
the sad watchers met her gaze. 

“O, surely, surely, you never sat here all night, 
alone V’ exclaimed she, raising both hands in 
great surprise. 

“Yes, Martha; for we knew not at what 
moment they might come !” 

With an ominous shake of the head, accompa- 
nied by a half-smothered sigh, the girl drew back 
the heavy curtains ; and, putting out the lights 
here and throughout the house, she returned to 
the kitchen to prepare a cup of hot coffee for her 
mistress and poor, dear young lady. 

“I’m sure,” said she, “the poor girl’s face is 
white as her dress ; and as for missus herself, 
why she looks like the very image of despair !” 



CHAPTER XIV. 


THIN hotels, business houses, and pri- 
vate home circles, too, the morning 
papers were circulated. Careless eyes 
glanced over the long array of news, foreign and 
domestic. Here is found a notice of some ves- 
sel lost at sea, and the brief record closes with 
the sentence, “All on board perished.’’ What 
is that to the reader ? He had no loved ones 
there. And he turns to another topic, which 
relates, perchance, the incidents of some terrific 
explosion, attended by fearful loss of life. But 
why should he give it a thought, unless it be 
to rejoice that neither life or property, or any 
thing belonging to him, were in any way affected 
by the catastrophe.^ Running his eye down the 
column, he reads, “Shocking railroad accident,” 
but turns carelessly from it, merely saying, per- 
haps, “ How common these accidents are getting 
to be ! Every day one hears of such occurences.” 
Ay : every day do fond hearts break, every day 
the wail of sorrow and woe surges up from the 
deep fountains of despair. What though we on 

215 



2i6 


ANNETTA ; 


our Western shores read, unmoved, of perils and 
disasters befalling the people of the East. What 
though we note the number of lives lost by acci- 
dent, be it great or small, and pause, perhaps, 
but to thank God that our loved ones are still 
safe; yet how many, many hearts are bewailing 
the consequences of every such disaster! Upon 
every vessel lost, every train wrecked, amid 
scenes of danger and death every-where, are those 
for whom some one is left to mourn. Yes; for 
every life thus lost a human heart somewhere is 
left to bleed. O, how vast the number, and how 
seldom we pause to think of the homes made 
desolate, and the hours, days, and even years of 
suffering every such occurrence entails upon the 
human family! 

Upon the borders of a quiet village, some miles 
distant from the city, near which our friends re- 
sided, a fearful scene had been enacted upon the 
evening which was to have seen the long-parted 
loved ones reunited once more beneath the shel- 
tering rooUof home. With hearts beating high 
with hope and expectation, our little party, whom 
we accompanied to the train and saw fairly 
started upon the route for home, sat conversing 
pleasantly with each other. The other passen- 
gers were engaged, as usual, some in reading, 
others discussing matters of greater or less im- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


217 


portance, while a few sat apparently wrapped in 
thought. Onward sped the train ; but suddenly 
a terrific crash was heard, a wild shriek fol- 
lowed, and at the bottom of a ravine lay a bro- 
ken, shapeless mass of timber, among which was 
buried a precious freight of human beings. O, 
the sad echoings of moans, cries, and piteous 
entreaties which fall upon our ears ! O, the fear- 
ful horrors of the scene ! Would that we might 
shut it forever from our gaze ! After what seemed 
an interminable delay, the villagers came flock- 
big from all directions, and every possible effort 
was made for relieving the sufferers. 

From beneath the debris helping hands drew 
forth the crushed, crippled, and disabled pas- 
sengers. Alas ! from how many poor wounded 
bodies the life had been thus suddenly and fear- 
fully crushed out! How many hearts were stilled 
forever, how many souls had flown to the God 
who gave them ! Stunned and bruised, but not 
seriously wounded, Lawrence Weber was drawn 
from his perilous position beneath the wreck. 
Regaining his shattered senses, his first act was 
to search for his friends. But, for some time, he 
could discover no trace of them amid the con- 
fusion and distress by which he found himself 
surrounded upon every side. At last, however, 
as a portion of the wreck was removed, his eyes 


218 


ANNETTA ; 


fell upon the ghastly faces of William and Isabel. 
In an instant he was beside them, calling each 
by name; but to his cries there came no re- 
sponse ; for the voices of both were hushed for- 
ever, and upon the pale brows was placed the 
icy seal of death. 

Sadly the blow fell upon the heart of Lawrence 
Weber ; for, during their residence in Calcutta, he 
had come to look upon them as friends in every 
sense of the word, and the feeling deepened and 
grew stronger with each passing day. That last 
conversation upon the deck of the vessel came 
back forcibly upon him now, and again he seemed 
to hear Isabel’s voice as she said : “ How many 

are nearer that eternal home than they think! 
How important it is that the soul be prepared to 
depart at any moment, ready to obey with joy 
the Master’s call!” 

With the assistance of some of the villagers, 
he removed the cold forms of his friends from 
the wreck, and continued his search for Eugene, 
the kind brother who had so joyously come to 
meet the returning sister — him whom he had 
known but a few hours, yet loved already. When 
found at last, to Lawrence Weber’s intense joy, 
he was still alive ; and, with the tender solicitude 
of a brother indeed, he had him carefully re- 
moved to a farm-house near by. And, hour after 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


219 


hour, while the mother and sister watched and 
waited at home, he kept his anxious, untiring 
vigil in that lowly room. Just at midnight, Eu- 
gene motioned him to come nearer. He bent 
down to catch the whispered words, and the first 
inquiry was for Isabel. Lawrence was silent ; for 
how could he answer .? how could he frame the 
reply which would, perchance, sever his faint 
hold upon life } 

“Tell me,” urged Eugene, “where are they.? 
Do not fear to speak. Are they suffering.?” And 
his eyes wore an eager, wistful look. 

“No,” said Lawrence; “they are at rest.” 

A convulsive shiver passed over his frame, the 
wistful expression faded from his eyes. 

“At rest !” he murmured, after a moment’s 
silence. At rest ; ay, at home with God — a 
precious home, where there shall be no more 
partings. “You knew them and you loved them, 
1 am sure,” added he, taking Lawrence’s hand 
in his. 

“ I did ; I did most truly,” said Lawrence, with 
emotion. 

“ Then go to our home, dear friend. Go to 
our stricken loved ones. Tell them we are all 
at rest, and will wait for them in that brighter, 
happier home, where ‘God shall wipe away all 
tears from our eyes, and there shall be no more 


220 


ANNETTA; 


death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall 
there be any more pain, for the former things 
are passed away.’ ” 

‘‘But, surely, Eugene, you will not die. You 
are not mortally wounded. O, Eugene, dear 
friend, live ; live, for the sake of those who love 
you.” 

“The Master calls. I must obey. The only 
pang in death is in leaving those for whom I 
have toiled and cared for years. O, that I might 
look once more upon their dear faces, and hear 
once again the voices I love! They are alone 
now, and destitute. How can I leave them to 
struggle on, unaided, against the adversities 
which may come upon them } O God, help I 
Lord strengthen 1” 

There was agony in that brief prayer I but the 
answer came, swift and sure. A smile hovered 
over the pale face, the tightly clasped hands 
relaxed, and were placed gently upon Lawrence’s 
bowed head, and, in a low voice, he said : “ He 
does help, blessed Savior ; a present help in 
every time of need. ‘Though he slay me, yet 
will I trust in him.’ ” 

A little while he lay in silence, evidently suf- 
fering greatly. His eyes were closed, and his 
pallid lips moved as if in prayer. A physician 
entered, and, after noting the tokens of failing 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


221 


strength, and the accompanying symptoms of 
approaching death, left a few directions with 
Lawrence, adding, “A few hours, at most, is all 
that is left him of life.” 

Of this life,” murmured Eugene, slowly. But 
there is a life beyond, which is eternal.” 

“ If you have any directions to leave, my young 
friend, it will be best to attend to it at once,” said 
the physician, as he turned to leave the room. 

I leave all in the hands of my God,” said 
Eugene. 

“ How peacefully Christians die !” thought the 
physician, as he hurried away to minister to the 
wants of others needing his care. 

‘‘Are you suffering now, dear friend .?” inquired 
Lawrence, bending kindly over the dying man. 

“Yes, yes ; but the love of Christ sustains me. 
I am almost home ! alm.ost home !” 

“And you do not shrink back from the cold 
river.? You do not fear to go.?” questioned Law- 
rence, a feeling of awe stealing over him. 

“O no; I have no fear; Jesus is with me; 
and with the Psalmist I can say, ‘Though I walk 
through the valley of the shadow of death, I 
will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; thy rod 
and thy staff, they comfort me.’ Lawrence, I 
rejoice to go. My only sorrow is . for those I 
leave, but God will provide, Jesus will sustain. 


222 


ANNETTA ; 


I long for rest. Bear my last message to them, 
Lawrence. Do n’t forget. Tell them we are 

waiting, we are .” A look of intense pain 

passed over his features. “ Lord Jesus, come 
quickly,” he whispered ; and the soul of Eugene 
Erasure left its frail tenement. He was at rest. 
No more suffering, no more toil or sorrow. Be- 
fore the great White Throne he was singing the 
glorious song of redemption. . . . 

’T is evening again. The moon looks down 
upon the scenes of earth, and the stars shine as 
of old ; but gone is their power to cheer and 
illume. How much misery, how much deep, 
unutterable sorrow, do they look upon now! ’Tis 
always so, indeed ; for from every part of the 
earth ascend sounds of woe, mingled with prayers 
and entreaties, though we, in our own gladness 
and prosperity, may know it not. 

“ The deathless 

Saudalaphon stands listening breathless 
To sounds that ascend from below ; 

From the spirits on earth that adore, 

From the souls that entreat and implore 
In the fervor and passion of prayer. 

From the hearts that are broken with losses; 

And weary with dragging the crosses 
Too heavy for mortals to bear.” 

Within that lonely home, upon the suburbs of 
the great city, no lights were flashing now, no 
glad hearts were there waiting to welcome the 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 223 

absent, no happy voices singing fragments of 
joyous songs. All was still and dark and dreary; 
for, in the silent parlor, three cold forms lay 
shrouded for the grave ; and, within the darkened 
chamber above, a grief-stricken mother lay moan- 
ing upon her bed, refusing, like Rachel of old, 
“ to be comforted, because her children were 
not.” Beside her, with pale face and quivering 
lips, knelt the devoted daughter, the patient, 
long-tried Annetta. O, it was a pitiful sight — 
one from which we turn sadly away ! 

The presence of such terrible sorrow in the 
house seemed to have again aroused Mr. Era- 
sure. He looked wistfully upon the still, calm 
faces of the dead ; and, going from the silent 
parlor up to his wife’s room, he would stand by 
her bed, as if longing to comfort her, yet con- 
scious of his utter inability to do so. To Annetta 
he was very gentle, and often child-like. Forsak- 
ing the old position beside the study-table, he 
wandered restlessly about from room to room, 
as if still searching for something — “something 
which he could not find.” 

To Lawrence Weber it was a hard task to 
bear the sad tidings to that once happy family. 
Ay : it was hard, indeed, to speak the words 
which would bring such crushing sorrow upon 
those who so tenderly loved the dear ones gone 


224 


ANNETTA ; 


before. How he longed to comfort them, how 
his kind heart yearned to sympathize with them 
in this terrible bereavement ! But, though he had 
so often heard of them that they did not now 
seem as strangers to him, yet he felt that, to 
them, he was a stranger still, whose presence 
might seem an intrusion. 

The last sad rites for the dead have been per- 
formed ; and she who, but a year ago, went from 
that home a happy bride, now sleeps in the quiet 
grave. Beside her, wrapped in the same dream- 
less slumber, lies her husband. Truly may it 
be said of them, “They were one in life, and in 
death were not divided.” And here, too, rests 
the noble Christian brother — he who had ever 
lived a life of true piety worthy the imitation of 
all by whom he was surrounded, enjoying the 
love of God himself, and leading others to drink 
from the same pure, inexhaustible fountain. O, 
what hallowed memories clustered about those 
three new-made graves ! 

Day after day passed slowly, sadly away, and 
still Mrs. Brasure lay in the same despairing 
grief from which Annetta had vainly sought to 
rouse her. Mr. Weber had called frequently; but 
she had been too ill to see him. To Annetta he 
had delivered Eugene’s dying message, express- 
ing, at the same time, the deep sympathy which 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 225 

he felt for them, and his readiness to do any 
thing in his power to aid or comfort them. She 
thanked him through her tears for all his kind- 
ness, and begged him to come again when her 
mother would be able to add her own acknowl- 
edgments to hers. 

“ I ask no thanks, Miss Erasure ; indeed, it 
pains me to receive them. I only want to be 
considered in the light of William’s friend and 
your own, ready to do any thing for you.” 

“ I appreciate your kindness. It is very accept- 
able in this hour of trouble ; for I know you loved 
them too.” And the tears flowed freely as she 
thought of that homeward journey and the many 
pleasant hours he had spent in their company. 

One morning, a few days after, she came to 
her mother’s side, and, bending over her, gently 
said, “ Dear mamma, would n’t you like to have 
me read to you now 

There was no answer save a low, gasping sigh. 

“ See, mamma,” continued she, anxious to 
rouse her from her despair; “see, it is Eugene’s 
Bible, with all the precious promises marked by 
his own hand !” 

The mother took the volume from her daugh- 
ter’s hand, and, turning the leaves slowly, gazed 
tearfully upon the penciled passages. Handing 
it back to Annetta, she said : 

15 


226 


ANNETTA ; 


Yes, dear. Read something he has marked; it 
will seem like a message from my dear boy, lead- 
ing my thoughts from self up to Him in whom I 
fain would trust now and always.” 

In a touching manner, Annetta read many 
sweet passages, which did indeed appear like a 
voice from the better land, to the poor mother’s 
sinking heart. She kept the precious volume 
beneath her pillow, often drawing it forth to pe- 
ruse the same blessed promises over and over 
again ; every word seemed so perfectly adapted 
to her needs. 

“ O, how it comforts me !” said she. “ My 
dear boy ; how he loved this book ! how faithfully 
he kept its sayings in his heart, and how nobly 
he followed its precepts !” 

One still, beautiful evening, while her mother 
slept, Annetta went to visit the three graves in 
the quiet cemetery. It was but a short distance 
from her home, and often was she found there 
at the twilight hour, when she could leave her 
mother for a little while resting alone. As she 
sat there, thinking of the past, a sense of utter 
loneliness came over her. She felt weak and 
helpless, and yearned — O so earnestly ! — for Eu- 
gene’s strong arm to lean upon, and for Isabel’s 
words of encouragement and cheer. 

“ They have finished their work, and have 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 227 

entered upon their reward !” she said, “ while I am 
left to toil on wearily and alone, till my summons 
shall come. My work is not yet finished ; my 
life not yet complete. O, for strength to go 
bravely on ! O, for power to soothe and comfort 
those still left to my care ! May I be a blessing 
to them ! But O, it is so lonely there now, so 
dreary and still ; and my heart yearns so unceas- 
ingly for these beloved sleepers !” and bowing 
her head upon the mound which covered the 
cold form of Isabel, she wept long and bitterly. 

Suddenly she was startled by a light step, and 
raising her head, met the sympathetic gaze of 
Lawrence Weber. Quietly he sat down beside 
her, waiting till her grief subsided ; then, as the 
sobs gradually grew fainter and lower, he took 
her trembling hand in his, saying gently: 

“ Do not consider me an intruder, my dear 
young friend. Believe me, I only want to help 
and comfort you.” 

“ I feel it, Mr. Weber, and do appreciate all 
your kindness ; and my heart thanks you truly,” 
she answered, raising her expressive dark eyes 
to his. 

Sitting there in the dim twilight, he told her 
many incidents connected with the life of Isabel 
and her husband while in Calcutta. He repeated, 
too, the conversation upon the deck that night. 


228 


ANNETTA ; 


when both expressed their willingness to go 
whenever their summons should come. It was a 
comfort to Annetta to hear this from the lips of 
one who had been so intimately connected with 
them. And then he told her how peacefully, and 
even happily, Eugene had breathed his life away, 
murmuring with his latest breath, “ Lord Jesus, 
come quickly !” 

O !” said he, “ to me death has always seemed 
so terrible ; but to him there was no terror, no 
shrinking back. It is a blessed thing to see a 
Christian die, and I have never ceased, since that 
hour, to wish I too was a follower of Christ.” 

“ ‘ I am the light of the world : he that followeth 
liie shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the 
light of life,’ ” repeated Annetta. She loved that 
passage ; Eugene had loved it too. It was so 
full of comfort, and now seemed doubly precious 
and consoling to her. 

'‘But I am weak and sinful and untaught. I 
know not the way,” said her companion. 

“ Christ himself points out the way,” said An- 
netta; “for it is written, ‘I am the way, the 
truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the 
Father but by me.’” 

“Your faith is strong,” said he ; “you believe 
so implicitly.” 

“Why should we not believe.? For God’s 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 229 

promises are immutable ; ‘ If ye abide in me, 
and I in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it 
shall be done.’ ” 

“Your words are comforting,” said he ; “and I 
hope to resume this conversation at no distant 
day, for I am sadly in need of both comfort and 
instruction. But the night-air grows colder, and 
it is not safe to remain longer here.” And draw- 
ing her hand within his arm, they walked slowly 
homeward. 

Many such meetings took place at that sacred 
spot, and often did Mr. Weber lead the conversa- 
tion to such topics as the one just recorded; for 
the young girl’s faith and confidence inspired him 
with kindred feelings. 

One evening, he told her that the business 
which had been the means of bringing him to 
the city, required that he should also go farther 
west, and that he would probably be absent 
several weeks, but would see her again upon his 
return. She missed him at first, for her life 
was a quiet one, often very lonely ; but after the 
lapse of a few days, her whole time and attention 
were devoted to the mother, who was evidently 
failing fast. The poor, weary heart had struggled 
against so many crushing sorrows, the worn-out 
frame was so weak and powerless now, nothing 
seemed left her but to depart and be at rest. 


230 


ANNETTAj 


know that my days are numbered, darling !’* 
she said. “ I shall soon sleep in peace beside 
my children. But O, Annetta, it grieves me to 
leave you so lonely and sad. Do n’t, darling ; 
don’t,” she added, as the poor, girl gave vent to 
an uncontrollable burst of sorrow. “God will 
strengthen you ; he will sustain you. Look to 
him for comfort when I am gone.” 

Her voice died away in a faint whisper ; but 
Annetta wept on, her head bent down upon the 
bed, close beside her mother. Gently the thin 
white hand stroked, her soft hair till her grief 
had spent itself. Annetta realized now that soon 
she would be motherless ; soon another treasure 
would be gone from her clasp, and life grow 
darker and darker for her. Daily she saw the 
dear eyes losing their luster, and the cheek 
grow more wan and colorless ; the thin hand had 
scarcely strength now to lift itself in blessings 
upon her head. 

One dreary Autumn day, she sat reading Eu- 
gene’s Bible. Cold blew the wind without, and 
the dull, ceaseless patter of the rain fell with a 
sad monotony upon her ears. Toward evening 
the storm increased ; the pitiless wind wailed 
wildly around the house; the rain fell in tor- 
rents, and the night was dismal beyond descrip- 
tion. As Annetta stood at the window, looking 


[ijcjjmtj 





RKADING KUGP:NK’S HIHLK 


Face page 230. 




: ■ '• V 


V • * ■' 

f ' to .> I ' 


■V Voi? ' : : 

.. . . r^iw>jwwif.f , 

I CJ < j 'J ' ' f • 


'. ,r g5«S^!? •; ' ’ . r |{C . »'.«t- 

**1 ' y i' * ■ 


■ ' - .-'•* • - ^ 
" ^i' ?}<'•" »' ■' ' 

^V- ' .. 

i . 'V. W ^ y 




:■■>%;. . V*' 

•, • . *'«. ■■i^_ ^,y. ' • 
-*r.V fi ** 

« 



i * * 




V . »l 

•: t;h'- , 

! i 

" " '• j’’**’ 


‘ \ 

M 


- I 




iS5i 










.4 


->iv • 

,> 

»V", .' • •■' M 

••».■*■' 'll ■ '• 

y ' < - ♦ 


r *■ 


* • , 

« 

. < • 


* • * 
I 


’ *’t 
« > 


' « 
r 




•*jV 

•m , . * , 


i 


• • 

A'*‘\ ' 

'/V^V *v './.i' i. 





I i 




1*^ 


^ »r 


« . 


' »•.. 

•* V 


■*> . 


f • 

« > 


\ 

'. . 

■■ V 


to I 

< 4 . 


I 


.6 


yS- 


' >. 


k • 



» t 


* 4 . 


\ t 





'. ■- • , .»■ 


A 

V • -» 


\V‘ 


k . ' 


* 1 


•" ^ ■ ' 






;’■■ ^ ,v^V-':;V 

0' 


'If. 

1 h I 1 I 


♦ . • ’ - » ■ 

■■ ^'v •» vV 

, 3k:h'''-Vi'A.^.'. V'-'-.L ...V .■ 



' Ji 


* 


I I 




OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 23 1 

out into the murky darkness beyond, almost 
unconsciously she murmured : 

“ The sky is changed ; and such a change ! O night. 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong !” 

Turning from the window, she sat down beside 
the bed, watching with patient, loving eyes, the 
dear invalid who was sleeping quietly. Hour 
after hour passed, and still she kept her place. 
It was a lonely vigil, but the devoted daughter 
had known many such. At midnight the sleeper 
awoke. 

“ O, I Ve had such sweet dreams, my child ! so 
beautiful, so glorious !” she exclaimed. 

“You seemed to be resting very sweetly, dear 
mamma. You are better, I am sure,” said An- 
netta, bending lovingly over her. 

“ Yes, darling : but you look weary. Lie down 
beside me here, and rest.” 

“ I am not weary, mamma. I would rather sit 
here and watch you, as you sleep,” she answered. 

The mother smiled, and, after remaining quiet 
a little while, she turned away, saying, “A strange 
stupor seems to overpower me, Nettie dear ;” and 
in a few moments she slept again. All night the 
storm beat wildly against the house ; and, to An- 
netta, the winds seemed wailing sad requiems 
for the dead. Toward morning, the . invalid 
woke again ; but a change had passed over her. 


232 


ANNETTA; 


Reaching out her hand, in a low, half-whispered 
tone, she said : 

“ My darling, God bless and comfort you now 
and ever ! Do n’t grieve, my child. But I am 
going ; they are waiting, they are calling !” 

“ O, my mother !” cried Annetta, falling upon 
her knees beside the bed. 

“ I need not charge you to watch over your 
poor father. I know, too well, how faithfully 
you will guard him every moment, while you live. 
God will reward you in his own good time ; per- 
haps never on earth, but O, so abundantly in 
heaven !” 

Annetta could not speak ; she only wept and 
clung convulsively to the wasted form of her 
dying mother. 

“ Nettie, darling, be calm for my sake !” said 
the low voice again, as the sobs resounded 
through the room. 

“ I will. God help me to be all you could wish, 
to the last moment of life,” replied Annetta, 
making an effort to conquer every outbreak of 
grief, though it almost seemed that she, too, must 
die in the attempt. 

“That is like my own brave child,” said her 
mother. “And now, Nettie,” continued she, 
slowly and with effort, “ one more charge I leave 
you — my poor Henry. Watch and pray for him. 


OR, THE STORY OF' A LIFE. 233 

as I have done ; keep a home for him while you 
live. Some time he may grow weary with wan- 
dering, and come back to the old fireside; tell 
him that I died, blessing him. Say that you 
will, dear.” 

‘*I will, mamma, I will,” said Annetta, clasping 
her hands tightly, as if fearful she could not keep 
down the rising sobs. 

*‘And O, my beloved daughter,” continued the 
low voice, “ above all, trust always in God ; never 
forget that you have one Friend who will never 
leave or forsake you, one who will care for you 
always! In his hands I leave you.” 

The sweet voice died away, the soft eyes were 
closed, and Annetta fancied she slept again. 
Feeling how greatly she needed that strength 
which comes from God alone, . she knelt and 
poured out all her grief to Him who pitieth his 
children. Rising, she bent down to kiss the 
pale brow of the sleeper ; but O, it was so icy 
cold, and the sweet face wore the hue of death ! 
Calmly, without a sigh, the spirit had sought its 
heavenly home. 

With a wild, despairing cry, Annetta fell back 
utterly unconscious. Fortunately, good, attent- 
ive Doctor Grey, was just then ascending the 
stairs. Hearing that cry of anguish, he hastily 
entered the room. Glancing at the pallid coun- 


234 


ANNETTA; 


tenance of the mother, lying so still and cold 
among her pillows, he bent down, and, taking 
the unconscious girl in his arms, he murmured, 
compassionately, “Dear child! poor, dear child I 
I did not think the end was so near. Would 
that I had remained through the night I” Laying 
her tenderly upon a lounge in an adjoining room, 
he hastily dispatched Martha for his wife, and 
returned to administer restoratives to his young 
charge. When consciousness returned, kind Mrs. 
Grey was bending over her, a look of sympathy 
and affection upon her pleasant face. A few 
hours later, Mrs. Moorely arrived, and every 
attention was bestowed upon the sorrowing An- 
netta. The beloved sleeper was laid beside the 
dear ones for whom she had mourned, but the 
redeemed soul was reunited with theirs in a 
better world. 

Doctor and Mrs. Grey proved themselves true 
friends to Annetta, aiding, cheering, and encour- 
aging her through the weary days which fol- 
lowed ; and at last, with a constant prayer for 
help within her heart and upon her lips, she 
rose up strengthened, resolved to take up life’s 
burdens, bearing them onward till God should 
say, “ It is enough ; come up higher.” 

Her father required more care now than ever 
before. Growing physically weaker every day. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 235 

she was obliged to be always near to anticipate 
and supply every want. He appeared to miss 
his wife more and more every hour ; and, point- 
ing to her vacant chair, would look up into An- 
netta’s face with a wistful, grieved expression. 
To add to her anxiety, there were times now 
when wild fancies ran riot in that disordered 
brain, and he gave indications of becoming vio- 
lent. Often he would start suddenly from his 
chair, as if pursued by some enemy whom he 
feared. Then, wringing his hands, he would sink 
back again, weeping as if in the very bitterness 
of anguish. Annetta^s voice and Annetta’s touch 
alone had power to soothe him into quiet again. 
Tenderly she would murmur caressing words, as 
one would to a frightened child, until, exhausted, 
he would at last fall asleep, and the tired daugh- 
ter would steal away to weep and pray alone. 
Doctor Grey frequently expressed fears that it 
was not safe for her to remain alone with him 
now, and urged her to allow him to again bring 
Mrs. Price to act as nurse. 

“No, no,” said she; “I have no fear; and no 
voice but mine can charm away these fancies ; no 
other hand can minister half so well to all his 
needs. He looks to me for every thing. A 
stranger would annoy him, I am sure; and I 
wish to spare him all the vexations and little 


236 


ANNETTA. 


trials which it is possible for me to turn aside. 
In watching over him, I am only performing a 
daughter’s duty, and fulfilling my mother’s dying 
wish.” 

“Well, Annetta, I certainly have no wish to 
interfere ; but I am very anxious about the mat- 
ter, and only wish to do for the best.” 

“I am sure of that. Doctor, and will prove 
to you yet, I hope, that I am equal to my self- 
imposed task.” 

“Your courage and determination will, doubt- 
less, carry you through, my child ; but do not tax 
your strength too much ; and, by the way, do not 
forget that I hold myself in readiness to come to 
your assistance at any moment?’ 

“Thank you. Doctor. I feel that I can depend 
upon you, and am rejoiced to know I have such 
a true friend left to me still.” 



CHAPTER XV. 



FEW weeks after Mrs. Erasure’s death, 
Lawrence Weber returned ; and evening 
after evening found him in that lonely 
home ; for he knew now that he loved most truly 
the dear girl who was as a ministering angel 
there. Sometimes he persuaded her to take long 
walks with him when the shades of evening fell, 
and her father, sleeping quietly in his easy-chair, 
would not miss her from his side. 

She, too, knew now that she loved the man 
who cheered, comforted, and protected her ten- 
derly, as Eugene had done in the olden time. 
And, as the weeks and months went by, life’s 
dark shadows seemed lifted again. Her step 
grew quicker, her voice regained the olden ring, 
and her eyes brightened with the radiance of 
love’s own light. 

'‘Dear friend,” said she; "yes, I love to call 
you friend, for there is so much meaning in the 
term when used in its truest sense. And O,” 
continued she, earnestly, "I tremble now to think 

237 



238 


ANNETTA ; 


what my life would have been without you. So 
dark, so cheerless! What a comfort you have 
been to me I” 

He smiled down upon the sweet face raised 
so confidingly to his, and, tenderly kissing the 
lips which quivered with emotion, promised again 
and again to love and cherish her always. 

“ O,” said she, “it is so sweet to know that I 
shall not tread life’s path alone ! I have known 
sorrow, Lawrence, and have almost dared to 
wish I, too, might be soon called to my rest. 
But now that by my side one will walk who will 
care for me always, I feel that I may even yet 
know something of that brighter, happier portion 
of life, of which others speak in such glowing 
terms. 

“You shall, indeed, dear Nettie. My first care 
shall always be for you. Your happiness, indeed, 
shall be my highest aim ; and nothing but death 
can part us.” 

There was fervor and earnestness* vibratins; 
through every tone of his voice. Annetta list- 
ened, and her heart was filled with joy such 
as she had never known. Alas ! how little we 
know of the workings of the human heart ! How 
many such promises are made, yet never ful- 
filled 1 Fain would we linger over this portion 
of Annetta’s life, the one bright, beautiful dream 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 239 

shedding its radiance for a season over the path 
appointed her. 

Lawrence Weber loved Annetta; and did not, 
for a moment, doubt the intensity of her own 
affection for him. Having awakened within her 
heart all the sweetest emotions of which that 
heart was capable, having won her in part from 
the grief which had oppressed her, and taught 
her to rely upon himself for comfort and happi- 
ness, he did not dream but that she would be 
ready and willing to unite her fate with his 
whenever he desired it. He knew he had already 
lingered too long, yet could Jiot go back without 
bearing with him the one whom he loved. 

At last, upon receiving a summons home 
which admitted of no delay, he resolved that the 
marriage must take place at once; and, accord- 
ingly, unfolded his plans to her that evening, 
never, for a moment, doubting her consent. 

She was surprised and pained, deeply pained, 
to learn that he must go. In the midst of her 
new-found happiness, she had not paused to 
think of the probability of his ultimate return to 
Calcutta ; and now, for the first time, saw, with 
startled eyes, the gulf of separation yawning 
between them. What wonder if she drew back, 
appalled, dreading to know the full extent of the 
trial awaiting her, yet feeling that, moment by 


240 


ANNETTA ; 


moment, it was too truly drawing nearer, and she 
so powerless to avert it. 

“Lawrence,” cried she, in a tremulous voice, 
“you will not, O, you will not, leave me now!” 

“Leave you, Nettie.^ No, dear one; I am only 
waiting for your consent to take you with me to 
a home which, even now, awaits the coming of 
its mistress.” 

“And must I leave the dear parent who would 
never cease, while life lasted, to miss the daugh- 
ter who has made his comfort the great study of 
life for years .?” 

“Annetta,” said he, “you have, indeed, been a 
devoted daughter. You have performed many 
duties from which weaker natures would long 
since have drawn back. You must now consider 
what is due to yourself. You richly deserve a 
recompense at last.” 

“No, Lawrence; my work has been but a 
labor of love ; my recompense, the consciousness 
of having tried to lighten, in my weak way, the 
burdens which pressed so heavily upon him. God 
help me to be faithful to the end !” 

“We will not leave him comfortless, Annetta. 
Mrs. Price will care for him faithfully. She can 
be safely trusted. Every comfort shall be pro- 
vided for him ; and I am sure Doctor Grey will 
watch over him still.” 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


241 


‘‘And I would never see him more. Death 
may come to him at any moment, and I not be- 
side him- in the last solemn hour. It can not, 
can not be. My work is not yet finished. I 
can not desert my post.” 

She had tried to appear calm, and had strug- 
gled for strength to bear up But her voice died 
away in a low, gasping cry, while her hands were 
tightly clasped over her heart ; for its wild throb- 
bings seemed to stifle her very utterance. 

“Annetta,” urged her lover; “you have made 
sacrifices for others, can you not make this one 
for me ?” 

“I do ! O, Lawrence, dear, dear friend ! Am 
I not sacrificing more than words can tell, in 
giving you up ? Can this poor heart of mine 
bear more than this 

“ Then why prolong its sufferings } O, my 
Annetta ; come, come to love and happiness ! It 
is your just reward, the recompense you so truly 
deserve. Come.” And he extended his arms 
appealingly toward her. 

“ Lawrence, I can not, I can not,” she moaned, 
sinking into his outstretched arms. Tenderly he 
held her a moment, urging her to go ; but, rising 
suddenly, she turned away, murmuring again, 
with pallid lips, “It is in vain ; I can never leave 
my helpless father.” 

16 


242 


ANNETTA; 


“My love shall repay you, darling, for all you 
suffer in leaving him. Believe me, Nettie, it 
shall know no limitation. My constant aim shall 
be your happiness.” 

“ Happiness !” she echoed, mournfully. “ What ! 
purchase happiness at such a cost ? Ah, Law- 
rence, truly as I love you, deeply as I suffer in 
turning from the love you offer, I should never 
know an hour’s rest or comfort separated from 
him. He needs all my care ; and yet — and yet — 
it is so hard. O, how shall I bear it, how can I 
see you go 

Again the poor suffering heart vainly strove 
to conquer the tide of feeling which welled up 
from its troubled depths. Pale and tearful, she 
sat there listening to his impassioned words, 
saying only : “ Why tempt me still ? I can not, 
can not leave him !” 

Finding her resolute to the last, he left her 
in her loneliness and grief How great that 
loneliness, how all-absorbing that grief, he never 
knew ; nor can pen or tongue portray it in aught 
but its feeblest sense. Sitting with her face 
pressed close to the window, she watched his 
retreating form till it disappeared forever from 
her lingering gaze. 0,-the wail of agony that 
rose from her crushed heart as, in tones trem- 
bling with anguish, she murmured: 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


243 

“ ‘ Good-bye !’ Let me wait to hear the last, last sound of his 
feet ! 

Ah me ! but I think in this life of ours the bitter outweighs the 
sweet.” 


She did not know how she spent that long, 
long night. She only knew that she wept and 
prayed and struggled for strength to endure, 
power to overcome. She knew, too, she sat 
alone in silence and darkness, bowed down in 
weakness and woe, as hour after hour passed 
noiselessly on, rising up as the gray dawn came 
again, tottering with feeble steps to her own 
room to renew her petitions for help from above. 
When did the loving Father ever turn a deaf ear 
to the cries of his suffering children ? 

Annetta rose at last, pale, sad, weary, yet 
ready to go forward as God willed — ready for the 
work which he had given her to do. And yet 
there were hours of suffering still — nights spent 
in pacing the narrow limits of her little room, 
when the anguish of her heart could not be re- 
pressed ; when, with hands tightly clasped, and 
eyes wearing an expression of deepest sorrow, 
she would exclaim, “ O Lawrence ! Lawrence ! 
was it for this I learned to love you 
*Then, striving to subdue the longing for the 
love she had so highly prized, she would pray 
again for the comforts of Divine approval and 


244 


ANNETTA; 


direction. Worn out, she would sink at last into 
feverish sleep, rising with the light of returning 
day, ready for the performance of ail her duties ; 
and her stricken heart tried to find relief and 
rest in twining its shattered afiections yet more 
closely about her afflicted father, upon whom was 
lavished every attention, every tenderness and 
watchful care which filial love could suggest. 

A few months passed on, and Annetta felt that 
her charge was gradually fading from her sight. 
Toward the last, he became very gentle and do- 
cile ; the feverish fancies which had tormented 
him were gone now. He was quiet, and evinced 
something of the affectionate, confiding disposi- 
tion of earlier days. He clung constantly to 
Annetta, and was never” contented when she was 
absent a moment from his side ; and every day 
she became more and more thankful that she had 
not left him. 

Life ebbed slowly but surely away ; and at last 
he, too, was at rest. And as Annetta stood be- 
side his grave, leaning upon the supporting arm 
of her kind friend. Doctor Grey, she felt that now 
she was indeed desolate and alone. But within 
her soul a still small voice whispered softly, “ The 
Lord redeemeth the soul of his servants : and 
none of them that trust in him shall be desolate.” 

“ Thank God for the consolations of the Gos- 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 245 

pel !” said she ; and in the words of the Psalmist 
will I say, ' How excellent is thy loving kindness, 

0 God ! therefore the children of men put their 
trust under the shadow of thy wings.’ ” 

Returning to the house, Annetta went to the 
study where her father had always been accus- 
tomed to spend the greater part of the time. 
Every thing within it seemed to speak to her now 
of him. There stood the easy-chair, with the 
little stool beside it — how plainly it recalled old 
memories! for each had its own little history. 
Oppressed by the silence and gloom which per- 
vaded the apartment, Annetta dwelt sadly upon 
the many changes which Time, in his onward 
flight, had brought to her, realizing painfully the 
present loneliness of her lot. 

Kind Mrs. Moorely soon joined her niece, and, 
in her motherly way, urged her to make her 
house her future home. 

“ Your duties here are ended,” said she, “ and 
with us you will be much happier than in this 
dreary house, alone. Come, dear Annetta, come 
to my heart and my home. Both are open to you 
always,” she added, persuasively. 

I believe it,- dear auntie, and thank you for it. 
Indeed, words can not express my appreciation of 
all your kindness; but though grateful for it all, 

1 must decline your offer.” 


246 


ANNETTA; 


“ Do not say so, my dear girl ; we long to have 
you with us.” 

Gladly would I go, auntie, but I have still 
another duty to perform. Upon her dying bed, 
my mother bade me keep a home for Henry ; 
and, while I live, I must remain in the old house, 
still waiting and praying for him, as my mother 
wished.” 

“ But you do not know that he will ever come. 
Indeed, it is not at all likely that he will ; for in all 
probability he, too, has long since passed away,” 
urged Mrs. Moorely. 

It may be so ; still we have no positive as- 
surance that such is the fact. I promised, and I 
must fulfill it. Dear auntie, let me do as my 
mother wished ; I shall be better satisfied.” 

“ But, Annetta, you can not live here alone, 
with no one but Martha near you. I really can 
not consent to your doing so.” 

'‘Then let Mrs. Price come; she is kind and 
motherly, and Doctor Grey is always near. May 
God bless and reward him for all his kindness 
to me !” 

And so it was settled that Annetta should be 
permitted to carry out her own wishes. Mrs. 
Moorely remained till the good doctor brought 
Mrs. Price, after which she returned to her own 
home, promising to come often to see her niece. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


247 


Every day the doctor called, often bringing his 
wife to sit with Annetta. The old lady’s pleasant 
chat helped to while away many an hour that oth- 
erwise would have seemed long and lonely. She 
felt strongly attached to Annetta, often speaking 
of her character in the highest terms, invariably 
concluding by calling her one of the best of 
her sex. 

Annetta never spoke of Lawrence Weber ; his 
name never passed her lips. That portion of her 
life was as a sealed book ; she had buried it deep 
within the sepulcher of her heart: 

“ Hiding its secrets close ; glad when another’s hand 
Found for itself a gem where hers found only sand.” 

Not long, however, were her friends permitted 
to care for her. She who had lived but to care 
for others, was nearing the port of peace. Her 
heart was broken ; she had no power now to tread 
life’s path alone. And often, through all the 
long hours of the silent night, while others slept, 
she, in her wakefulness, prayed for both Lawrence 
and Henry. At times, she felt that Lawrence 
had deserted li^er too hastily, even cruelly. He 
should have borne more patiently with her, and 
shown a deeper respect for the feelings of an 
affectionate daughter toward a father so helpless 
and dependent as he. But she freely forgave 


248 


ANNETTA; 


him now, and daily prayed for Heaven^s richest 
blessings upon him. 

One bright Spring morning, Doctor Grey came 
in early, and found Annetta lying quietly upon 
a low couch, beside the window, looking out 
upon the landscape to which nature was daily 
adding new beauties. She smiled as he entered, 
and held out her hand in token of welcome. 
Drawing up a chair, he seated himself beside her, 
and was soon talking in his pleasant, familiar 
manner. Rising to go, after quite a lengthy call, 
he bade her a cheerful good-morning, saying, as 
he left the room : 

“ I shall probably look in again in the course of 
the day, as that talkative little wife of mine desires 
me to bring her up to spend the afternoon.” 

“ I am glad, indeed, to hear that. Doctor ; do n’t 
fail to bring her early. You have no idea how 
rested and refreshed I always feel after her visits. 
There is something about her which always quiets 
and strengthens me.” 

“ That being the case, she shall certainly be 
often found with you ; for she loves to come, I 
assure you. But really, I must be olf; my pa- 
tients are doubtless wondering what has become 
of that old slow coach, known as Doctor Grey. 
So, for a few hours, good-bye ;” and he bowed 
himself out of the room. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 249 

Slowly he passed down the stairs, the bright, 
cheerful look fading from his countenance, giving 
place to a grave, thoughtful expression. Reach- 
ing the hall below, he stood a moment as if 
thinking intently ; then turning to the right, he 
entered the library, and, seating himself at the 
table, hastily wrote a few lines, which were placed 
in an envelope, ‘carefully directed and sealed. 
Placing the document in his pocket, he left the 
house, and was soon driving rapidly in the direc- 
tion of the city. A few hours later, he reap- 
peared, accompanied by his wife, who was gladly 
received by Annetta. 

The next morning, the old well-known horse 
and buggy might have been seen standing in 
front of the depot, while the good doctor him- 
self walked up and down the platform, evidently 
awaiting the arrival of some passenger upon the 
expected train, which soon came thundering into 
the station, attended with the usual noise and 
confusion. 

Doctor Grey stepped aboard and disappeared 
in the interior of the last car, from which he soon 
emerged, accompanied by Mrs. Moorely. 

“ I am glad you responded so promptly to my 
note,” said he. 

“ I could not have done otherwise,” was the 
reply. “ But, Doctor, it is so strange,” added she, 


250 


ANNETTA ; 


as they passed with a quick step to the buggy in 
waiting. 

A look of anxiety rested upon her face as she 
seated herself. The doctor gathered up the reins, 
and drove off at a brisk rate. 

“Yes,” said he, after a pause; “it is strange. 
And yet, on second thought, we can scarcely 
regard it so, after all.” 

“ How long is it since you apprehended any 
danger, and upon what grounds do you base your 
fears now asked Mrs. Moorely. 

“ I have been watching her very closely,” re- 
turned the doctor, “and have noticed a gradual 
sinking for some time; so gradual, indeed, as to 
be scarcely perceptible to a mere casual observer. 
Within the last day or two, the symptoms of fail- 
ing strength have increased to such an extent 
that I thought it best to send for you.” 

“You were right. Doctor; I am glad you did 
so. I shall not leave her again, poor dear child ! 
I long, yet almost dread, to see her again.” 

In a short time they arrived at the house, and 
Mrs. Moorely hastened at once to Annetta’s room. 

“ O auntie, how glad I am ! What a delightful 
surprise!” exclaimed Annetta, as Mrs. Moorely 
bent lovingly over her. 

“ I have come for quite a visit, my dear, being 
certain of my welcome,” she replied. 


ANNRITA WET^COMKS MKS. MOORETA 











• ' . 


i 

% 


I 

.1 f 



I 



♦ % 


» I 

« • 



V 






s 


$ 







i 


« 





~\ 


a 


4 

A 





* 

t ^ 





OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 25 I 

“ That is very kind, auntie, and I shall enjoy 
it more than I can tell you. Mrs. Grey often 
comes to sit with me ; but still I find myself alone 
the greater part of the time, when Mrs. Price is 
busy.” 

Mrs. Moorely appeared very cheerful in An- 
netta s presence, but often regarded her with a 
look of sorrow and anxiety when she slept, fre- 
quently questioning the attentive doctor in regard 
to the state in which he found her from day to 
day. 

“ She seems so patient, so gentle, and never 
in the slightest degree despondent about her 
health. Do you think she is really beyond the 
hope of recovery 

** She is worn out !” was the reply. “ There is 
absolutely nothing left upon which to work ; ex- 
citement, and care for others, has long kept her 
up; but at her father’s death the last incentive to 
action was taken away, and she has been failing 
ever since. Life’s powers are all consumed ; that 
which remains is but the ashes of former vitality.” 

The verdict rendered by the doctor appeared 
correct. Annetta did not seem ill ; there was no 
definite ailment for which he might prescribe ; it 
was a gradual fading away, a gentle passing from 
the shores of time to those of eternity. With a 
sweet assurance that rest was near, she felt that 


252 


ANNETTA; 


in the beautiful words of the poet, she could 
truthfully say : 

“ A few more mornings, yet a few more mornings, 

We ’ll watch the light’s low dawning, dull and gray ; 

A few more mornings, and we ’ll faintly murmur 
To those who love us, ‘’T is our latest day.’ 

From weary brows will drop the life-worn mask; 

From tired hands will drop the half-done task. 

“ A few more mornings ! Amid distantf»dawnings. 

They who come after us will softly say : 

‘ Where now the labor of those gone before us — 

The recompense of all their burdened day ?’ 

They are not missed where they were always seen ; 

^ All life moves on as if they had not been. 

“ A few more morns ! ’T will all be told, our story. 

The heart that thrills to-day with love’s dear pain, 

Its suffering done. All done, the long endeavor. 

The far-out yearning of the lofty brain. 

There ’ll be in the low house where we lie down. 

No love, no hate, no dream of high renown. 

“ A few more morns ! ’T will all be told, our story. 

So sweet, so brief. Why war with changeless fate.? 

Why cry for love ? Why spend our strength for glory ? 

Why pray to God with prayer importunate .? 

His centuries go ; we still must come, and pass 
But as the shadows on the Summer grass. 

“ A few more morns ! Again, again in beauty 

The earth will wear the splendor of her Springs, 

While we, within the universe of spirits, 

Will wander somewhere among viewless things. 
Wondrous must be God’s gift to compensate 
For all we miss within our human fate.” 

One evening, a few days after Mrs. Moorely’s 
arrival, two gentlemen were seen walking rapidly 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 253 

up the road leading to Annetta’s home. Pausing 
at the gate, they stood a moment, conversing in 
low guarded tones. Entering at last, they passed 
with cautious tread round toward the rear of the 
house, evidently desirous of effecting a quiet en- 
trance. Martha was in the kitchen, and, raising 
her eyes as they approached, suddenly started 
forward with a quick, startled cry. One of the 
gentlemen raised a warning finger as if to imply 
silence ; but the signal came too late, and the 
words, “O, Master Henry! Master Henry!” rang 
through the house. The door of Annetta’s room 
stood open to admit a free passage of air through 
the apartment, and as that . cry fell upon their 
ears with startling distinctness, Mrs. Moorely 
sprang to her feet, while Annetta turned with 
blanched face and staring eyes to her aunt, mak- 
ing at the same time an effort to rise. 

“ It is Henry ! O, God be praised, it is Henry !” 
she cried, with quivering lips. 

“ Be quiet, Nettie, be calm ; there may be some 
mistake,” said Mrs. Moorely, regaining her own 
self-possession, and gently seeking to prevent 
Annetta from rising. 

“Let me, go, O auntie, let me go to him. I 
know it is Henry ! God has restored my brother 
to me. Hark !” she added, as a well-known voice 
was heard in the hall below ; “ O, it is the dear, 


254 


ANNETTA; 


dear boy at last !” and, with tottering steps, she 
tried to reach the door, calling in tremulous tones 
as she went, “ O Henry, Henry !” 

Mrs. Moorely threw one arm around the trem- 
bling form, and sought to quiet her ; but the quick 
ear of the long-absent brother caught the sound 
of his own name as it fell from his sister’s lips, 
and with a bound he cleared the passage and 
sprang up the stairs. She raised her eyes to his 
as he reached the landing. One short cry, one 
quick, eager movement toward him, and she fell 
fainting in his arms. Tenderly he kissed the 
white upturned face, and bore her back to her 
couch, while her aunt and Mrs. Price (who had 
hurried in upon hearing the commotion) hast- 
ened to administer restoratives. And now an- 
other advanced and stood beside her, his face 
wearing a look of surprise and pain, as he noted 
the changes which sorrow and illness had wrought 
upon the. fair young girl since last they met. 
Upon returning to consciousness, Annetta’s first 
inquiry was for Henry. 

“ Is it true O, tell me it is not a dream !” 
she said, as her eyes fell first upon her aunt, 
watching, with anxious look, for the first signs of 
returning life. 

For answer, Henry knelt down beside the low 
couch and took her hand in his, unable, for the 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


255 


time, to conquer his emotion sufficiently to speak. 
She pushed back the waves of soft brown hair 
from his forehead, and gazed long and tenderly 
into the dark eyes which she had so often feared 
were long since closed forever upon earthly 
scenes. She asked no questions, and seemed 
perfectly contented to lie quietly there, never 
wearying of gazing upon the face of the returned 
wanderer. 

“ Nettie, darling,” said he, “ there is another 
waiting for a welcome from you ; one who has 
never failed us, even in the hour of utmost need. 
When you are stronger, I have much to tell of 
his. recent goodness to me.” 

Annetta raised her head, and Henry’s com- 
panion advanced. 

“ Mr. Reed !” she exclaimed, extending her 
hand. Welcome, welcome home ; and may God 
reward you for past favors to us all, and for 
every kindness shown to this dear, long-lost 
brother !” 

The following day Annetta seemed much 
stronger ; and Henry drew her chair into the 
pleasantest corner of her cheerful room, and 
seated himself beside her. Each had much to 
relate in regard to the past, with numberless 
questions to ask and answer. 

Annetta told him of all the changes which had 


256 


ANNETTA ; 


befallen their once happy family, recounting the 
sad fate of the beloved brother and sister, to- 
gether with the last days and final departure of 
the afflicted parents to the better land. 

“ Amid it all,” said she, “ God has been very 
merciful to us, for he has taken them to himself. 
Each fell asleep with the blessed assurance of a 
life beyond the grave. Our mother found sweet 
comfort in trusting in Him who left for us the 
precious promises of the Gospel. But, O Henry,” 
continued she, with tearful eyes, “ words can 
never convey to you the constant longing and 
patient watching and waiting through which she 
daily passed for you. Night after night she wept 
and prayed for her absent boy ; and, Henry, she 
left a message for you. In her last hours she 
bade me keep a home for you while I lived ; for, 
said she, ‘Some time he may grow weary with 
wandering, and return to the fireside of home ; 
and if he ever comes, tell him I died blessing 
him.’ Yes, Henry, a mother’s dying blessing 
rests upon you.” 

Henry bowed his head, and his frame shook 
with the emotions which he could not suppress. 
Annetta waited in silence till this outburst of 
feeling subsided, and some degree of calmness 
returned ; then, laying her hand upon his head, 
said, gently : “ Tell me about yourself, Henry. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 2$/ 

How has time dealt with you during all these 
years } Has fortune smiled upon you, and have 
you known more of joy than sorrow 

‘^Can you ask, dear sister.? Had fortune 
smiled upon me, think you I would have been so 
long a wanderer 

“ Tell me about it, Henry. Give to your sister 
your entire confidence, will you not ?” 

“Nothing shall be hidden from you, dear Net- 
tie. You shall know all, even though the recital 
brings the blush of shame to my cheek. My 
only dread is of paining you.” 

“ I have borne it all already, brother. I have 
suffered for you in times past; but the joy of 
having you with me now, more than compensates 
for it all. My prayers have been answered. I 
have kept a home and a warm welcome for you, 
according to our mother’s wish, and God has led 
you to the old place at last. How sweet, how 
precious a reward !” 

He told her, then, of all the changes he too had 
known since he left his home to become a wan- 
derer, he knew not where. He related how, when 
the broad ocean rolled between him and his na- 
tive land, he had been prostrated by sickness, a 
stranger in a strange land, without either money 
or friends ; and how he missed the tender care 
and watchful solicitude of the dear ones at home. 

17 


258 


ANNETTA ; 


During his illness, he resolved to retrace his steps 
as soon as he should feel able to bear the journey ; 
but upon his recovery, a cowardly pride took pos- 
session of him, and he could not summon up 
sufficient manly strength to enable him to carry 
his resolution into effect ; feeling that, having never 
been of any real benefit to any one, but rather 
an unprofitable source of trouble to all, he re- 
solved to make some effort to become a better 
and more useful man, worthy of the name he 
bore. He sought long and diligently for some 
employment which should be the first round of 
the ladder by means of which he hoped to reach 
an elevated position, one of which he might be 
justly proud. This accomplished, he would then 
return to his home, able to prove to his friends 
that he had redeemed himself from the thralldom 
of indolence and selfishness, two characteristics 
of which he knew himself possessed. But as 
time passed on, and disappointment after disap- 
pointment crowded upon him, meeting him at 
every turn, he became disheartened, then reck- 
less, and finally, fell into disreputable company ; 
and was fast following the steps of those who 
were not slow in leading him into ways of sin. 
He soon wearied of their ceaseless round of 
pleasure-seeking, however, and resolved to break 
away from the company of those of whom he 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 259 

knew his mother and sister would have been 
ashamed. Renewing his search for honorable 
and lucrative employment, and meeting with no 
better success than before, he again gave up in 
despair, and suffered himself to be persuaded into 
joining his former companions, who were about 
to start on a whaling voyage, with the expectation 
of being “ out on the ocean sailing ” for a period 
of three years at least. 

“ Why war with fate said he. “ Three years 
will soon pass ; and possibly Dame Fortune may 
then condescend to bestow her favors upon me. 
For the present, there seems to be no other way 
open for me.” And so, feeling that, under such 
circumstances, his well-being was of no particular 
consequence to any one, and his family having 
probably concluded long ago that he no longer 
lived, he started, with scarcely a full realization 
of the consequences of the rash act. 

To one raised in the lap of luxury, such a 
voyage offers few pleasures and many hardships. 
Troubles gathered about the pathway of the im- 
pulsive adventurer, and many a weary hour was 
spent in regretting the step he had so thought- 
lessly taken. But regrets were of no avail ; and 
the years dragged slowly on, each seeming longer 
than its predecessor — containing, too, a double 
portion of hardships and daily toil. 


26 o 


ANNETTA ; 


“At last,” said Henry, with a sigh of relief, 
“after an absence of nearly four years, I stood 
once more upon shore ; and I think nothing 
could have induced me to try a seafaring life 
again. Through the influence of one of the 
offlcers, I obtained a situation as clerk in a mer- 
cantile house in . Another year was fast 

adding its own little history to the record of past 
time, and I began to feel that at last I was in a 
position which might eventually result in the 
realization of all the fond hopes and dreams in 
which I had formerly indulged. About this 
time, I began a systematic course of saving, 
with the idea of being able, in time, to repur- 
chase Clifton Place; but my plans were speedily 
and unexpectedly changed. Upon going to my 
place of business, one morning, I was told that a 
gentleman was waiting to see me. Judge of my 
surprise, upon entering the offlce, to find Mr. 
Reed standing before me. The first surprise 
over, he told me of his travels during the year, 
and the efforts he had every-where made to dis- 
cover my whereabouts, meeting at last with suc- 
cess through the medium of an agent traveling 
through the country for our house. 

^ “Through him, Nettie, I learned of all the 
trials through which you had been called to pass ; 
for auntie had written full particulars to Cousin 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 26 1 

Godfrey. My heart bled for you, dear sister, and 
I needed no persuasions to hasten at once to 
you, full of self-accusations for having remained 
so long away; and you, with a sister’s loving 
kindness, have accorded to the returning prodigal 
full pardon, and a sweet welcome home.” 

Annetta had listened to Henry’s recital with 
tearful interest, often interrupting him with ques- 
tions and words of sympathy and love. 

Godfrey Moorely arrived a few hours later, 
having gone directly home first, not knowing his 
mother was with Annetta. The dear invalid 
seemed very happy now, and really appeared to 
gather new strength and energy with each pass- 
ing day. Leaning upon Henry’s arm, she would 
walk out on pleasant days, returning with spark- 
ling eyes and a brighter color deepening on her 
cheek. 

Scarcely a day passed without some ex- 
pression of thankfulness gushing up from her 
full heart for the joy of his presence. Her eyes 
often followed his movements about the house 
with a glad, happy expression, truly beautiful. 
Her friends looked on, quite delighted with the 
happy change which his return had wrought, and 
began to entertain hopes of her recovery, with 
the exception of Doctor Grey. He said but little, 
yet regarded every change, however slight, with 


262 


ANNETTA ; 


watchful eye, never relaxing for a single day his 
careful attention. 

“Joy is a ready restorer. Only see how bright 
she looks to-day!” exclaimed Mrs. Moorely, as 
Annetta came toward the house, supported by 
Henry’s strong arm. 

The good doctor shook his head, without 
speaking. 

“ But do n’t you predict good results from all 
this.^” she asked. 

“ Time only can show ; but I fear that a reac- 
tion may yet take place. She is very frail ; a 
very little thing may change all,” said he. 

“ But we will be so careful ; we will guard her 
so tenderly,” urged Mrs. Moorely. 

“We will, indeed; and can only hope for the 
best,” returned the doctor. 

A few happy weeks passed on, and Annetta 
had continued to improve. But one evening she 
did not seem so well. A slight cold produced a 
night of feverish unrest, followed by weariness 
and languor, which confined her to her room the 
following day. The next and the next rolled 
round, and she was still a prisoner ; and soon 
she found herself unable to rise. Gradually the 
new-born strength gave place again to the old 
weakness ; and there were no more pleasant walks 
and rides, no more delightful evenings spent in 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 263 

the cozy little parlor. These were all given up, 
and the hopes of those who watched so carefully 
over her were rudely shattered. She never com- 
plained ; was always patient, gentle, and ever 
thoughtful for the comfort of those about her. 
Henry was very devoted in his attentions, never 
seeming to grow weary of waiting upon her, or 
contriving means for making the time pass as 
pleasantly as possible. 

The warm June days had come now, and the 
air was scented with the fragrance of the flowers 
which grew beneath her window. Henry raised 
her in his arms, and bore her, for the last time, 
to her easy-chair, that she might look once more 
upon the familiar scenes around her home. 

My little garden !” said she, “ how carefully 
Eugene tended it long ago! how much pride he 
took in its beauty! Dear brother, I shall soon 
meet them all beyond the boundaries of time.” 

She soon grew weary, and was carried back to 
her bed. The next evening, Mrs. Moorely sat 
holding the little hand in hers, tearfully watching 
the gray shadows of death stealing over the fair 
young face. Henry sat beside her, tenderly sup- 
porting her head upon his breast, struggling the 
while to stifle the sobs which welled up from his 
heart, lest their utterance should grieve her. Yet 
the deep silence was broken now and then by the 


264 


ANNETTA. 


sounds of sorrow which burst uncontrollably from 
the lips of the watchers. Doctor Grey and his 
wife were there ; so, too, were Godfrey and Mr. 
Reed. The faithful Martha, who had loved the 
dear girl from her infancy, knelt on the floor at 
the foot of the bed, weeping bitterly. She had 
taken leave of them all, and lay silently waiting 
for the opening of the gates which should admit 
her to that realm where she should “ see the 
King in his beauty.” The glory of the full moon 
shone calmly upon the white, moveless features, 
so beautiful in their stillness. 

No father or mother was with her in that 
solemn hour; but they were waiting with sister 
and brother beyond the river. And within that 
chamber of death, sincere hearts, tearful eyes, and 
tender voices were not wanting. Henry was not 
the only mourner there, for all present were at- 
tached to the gentle Annetta. To the borders of 
the river they accompanied her ; with a smile, 
she drew near ; her white lips parted, the dark 
eyes closed upon the scenes of earth, and the 
freed soul fled forever from its prison-house of 
clay. The long-tried spirit, that had lived so 
vivid a life, leaped up from the cold hearth-stone, 
forsaking forever the consumed tenement. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

EN years have passed since the soul of 
Annetta Erasure took its flight to the 
world of glorified spirits. Through ten 
long Winters the snows have drifted upon her 
grave, and through as many Summers the birds 
have sung among the branches of the willow 
drooping over the white tablet which md*ks the 
place of her rest ; but in that home where she 
shall forever sing the praises of the God whom 
she delighted to serve, ^‘a day is as a thousand 
years, and a thousand years as one day.” And 
now let me ask you, dear reader, to cross once 
more the billowy ocean, and traverse with me 
the distance intervening between that lowly grave 
and the city of Calcutta. 

Upon one of the pleasantest streets in a fash- 
ionable part of the city stands a row of hand- 
some houses ; adorned with ornaments, porticoes, 
and arcades, they seem like very palaces. In 
the elegantly furnished saloon of one which 

265 



266 


ANNETTA ; 


boasts even rarer attractions than its neighbors 
possess, sits a fair-haired, matronly-looking woman, 
in company with her two daughters, the eldest, a 
tall, dark, dignified young lady ; the other, an im- 
pulsive, merry-hearted, blue-eyed girl of sixteen. 

“ Mother,” exclaimed the latter, suddenly look- 
ing up from the book she had been reading, 
“why is it that Uncle Lawrence does not marry? 
I am sure there are plenty of ladies of all ages, 
sizes, and conditions, who would be willing to 
take him for better or worse ; indeed, I know of 
several who have been angling for him this long 
time.” 

“ My dear,” replied the lady, “ do not speak in 
that manner ; it is scarcely proper.” 

“ O, never mind the propriety or elegance of 
the speech just now, mother. I am more inter- 
ested in the subject of my remarks than in the 
proper mode of expression. Do you know, 
mother, why he remains so long in a state of 
single blessedness ? He is rich enough to sup- 
port a wife in splendid style.” 

“ I do not think that has any thing to do with 
his remaining a bachelor,” said the elder sister. 

“ Well, something has, at all events ; and 
I ’m very certain it is not because he does not 
appreciate woman,” said the sprightly Kate. 

“ No, indeed. I never knew any one who 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 267 

evinced, upon all occasions, so much respect and 
true appreciation of the sex,” replied Julia. 

“And his politeness and veneration (I might 
almost call it) is not confined to a few ; he treats 
every woman as if she were a queen. You should 
have seen him this morning, as he picked up a 
book that my music-teacher accidentally dropped 
upon the steps as she came up. He returned it 
with a smile and a bow worthy of a prince.” 

“ And only a week ago,” said Julia, “ I saw him 
help a poorly clad, weary-looking woman into a 
coach with as respectful an air as if she were the 
first lady in the land.” 

“ How strange ! He is so grave, too, and mel- 
ancholy. I have often fancied he must have 
passed through some great sorrow in his younger 
days. He is really growing quite gray, of late! 
Mother, do n’t you know any thing of his life be- 
fore he came to live with us .?” And she turned 
with an inquiring look to her mother. 

Mrs. Henderson had appeared lost in thought 
while her daughters were talking; the embroid- 
ery upon which she worked, lay idly in her lap, 
and her eyes wore a far-away look. As Kate 
repeated her question, she turned to her with a 
smile, saying: 

“ I only know that in his youth he met with a 
great disappointment, which has clouded his life 


268 


ANNETTA; 


ever since. Of the particulars I have never been 
informed; he has always avoided the subject, 
and I would not question him ; but I know that 
he has suffered.” 

“ Was it long ago ?” 

“Yes: while you were but a little child, Katie. 
He went away from home, and was absent a long 
time. After his return, we noticed the great 
change which had come upon him, transforming 
the gay, pleasant, light-hearted young man into 
the quiet, gloomy person he has been ever since.” 

“ I would love to know the story, mother. Do 
you think he would tell it now ?” asked Katie, 
with a pitying look in her beautiful eyes. 

“ I do not know, Katie ; but I am sure I would 
not like to ask him to bring forth the secret 
sorrows of his heart,” replied Mrs. Henderson. 

“ But, mother, you know he never refuses me 
any thing ; he is always so good and kind. He 
would not think for a moment, I am sure, that 
idle curiosity prompted me to ask for the story. 
I have so often felt that I would love to say or do 
something to let in a little sunshine which should 
help to cheer and brighten the heart grieving 
over some mournful past !” 

A moment later, the door opened, and a fine- 
looking man entered the room. Addressing a 
few pleasant words to the group he found there. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 269 

he passed on to the farther end of the large 
apartment, and threw himself upon a softly cush- 
ioned lounge. As the last faint glimmer of day 
disappeared, giving place to the quiet shadows of 
evening, Mrs. Henderson rose to ring for lights. 

“ Do n’t, mother,” whispered Kate, laying her 
hand upon her mother’s arm ; ** the darkness is 
much more appropriate for that story, you know, 
than the glare of lights.” 

Going quietly up to the lounge where her uncle 
was resting, she drew a low ottoman beside it, 
and, seating herself, began caressingly passing 
her fingers through the locks of luxuriant hair, 
among which was seen many a silvery thread. 
She often came to him in that childish, caressing 
way, and the loving little niece had become very 
dear to him. 

“Uncle Lawrence,” said she softly, “what 
makes you so sad 

“ Do you think me sad, little one ?” he asked. 

“ Yes : and I often wonder why it is so, when 
you have so much to make you happy. And I 
often wish, too, that I could help or comfort you. 
Tell me, uncle, is there nothing we can do .? Are 
you not happy with us 

“As happy as I ever expect to be anywhere 
while I live, Katie !” said he sadly. 

“ But, why not as happy as you used to be ? I 


2/0 


ANNETTA; 


have heard mother speak of a time when you 
were the gayest of all her brothers.” 

“ That was long ago, Katie — when I was 
younger by more than ten years.” 

“ But growing older does not always sadden 
one. I am sure that, with some, the last days 
of life are the best and happiest.” 

*‘Yes: when the heart is free from sorrow or 
remorse. Trouble, my dear child, causes one to 
grow old and weary much faster than the passage 
of years.” 

“ But have you seen so much trouble. Uncle 
Lawrence } And why do you speak of remorse } 
Surely, you have done nothing for which you 
need shed a repentant tear !” 

‘‘Ah, Katie, every wrong act calls for peniten- 
tial tears ; but even these can never wash away 
my sin. I am not deserving of even an hour’s 
happiness.” 

“ Tell me about it, uncle, won’t you ?” And 
the beautiful eyes looked appealingly into his. 

He was silent a moment ; and then, as if won 
by her resistless entreaties, said softly: “Yes, 
Katie, I will tell you. It is a sad story, one 
which carries me back many years ; but I live it 
all over again in memory every day, and the re- 
cital will be no more than giving voice to the 
thoughts which are ever present with me. 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


271 


‘‘About twelve years ago, I made the acquaint- 
ance of a most estimable young man, who, with 
his wife, then a happy bride of but a few weeks, 
had lately come to our city, sent out from 
New York by the firm in which I, too, had an 
interest. I soon became attached to William 
Howard and his lovely wife, and came to regard 
them as my best and truest friends, and spent 
many happy hours in their company. I fre- 
quently heard them speak of those whom they 
had left in their distant home — so frequently, 
indeed, that, in a short time, I knew by name 
each member of the household band. Misfor- 
tunes of a pecuniary nature had befallen the 
father some years previous, which was followed 
by loss of health and reason. The support of 
the family depended mainly upon the eldest son 
and daughter. The mother was an invalid, and 
the youngest daughter became, from her very 
childhood, the ministering angel to her afflicted 
parents. One son suddenly left home for rea- 
sons unknown, and was not heard from for many 
years, not until after the death of his parents ; 
and is now the only survivor of the family. After 
several years of hardship and unremitting toil, the 
condition of the family improved somewhat, and 
Isabel ceased giving the lessons in music and 
painting, by which she had aided so long in 


2/2 


ANNETTA; 


providing for the rest ; Eugene, the eldest son, 
being able then to provide well for all. 

Isabel married William Howard, and came, 
as I have already told you, a happy bride to Cal- 
cutta. After remaining a year among us, they 
returned to their native city ; and I, having busi- 
ness there at that time, accompanied them. 
During our journey I became still more inter- 
ested in them. At the port where we landed 
they were unexpectedly met by their brother 
Eugene. The meeting was a joyous one in every 
sense. We took the first train bound for the city 
in which they resided, expecting to arrive at 
their home the same evening. But O, Katie, 
how often in this world of change are our bright- 
est hopes and expectations met by bitter disap- 
pointment ! While yet some miles from the 
city, the train was hurled down an embankment, 
and my dear friends were among the killed.” 

“ O, uncle !” exclaimed Katie, clasping her 
hands, while tears of sympathy filled her eyes. 

“Yes, Katie; in one moment they were hur- 
ried from time to eternity. Eugene, whom I had 
known but a few hours, yet loved even then, 
lived a short time, and with his latest breath 
gave me his dying message for those at home. 
With feelings that tongue can never describe, I 
bore the remains to the home where waited, in 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 2/3 

agony and woe too deep for words, those to 
whom I had previously sent intelligence of this 
fearful calamity. There I first met Annetta Era- 
sure, the younger sister of whom I had heard so 
often. To see her was to love her. I can never 
describe the emotions which filled my heart, as 
I beheld her, moaning and weeping in bitter sor- 
row over the cold forms of those for whom she 
had been' waiting in joyous anticipation of a 
happy reunion. To her I repeated Eugene’s 
dying words, and offered all the aid and sympathy 
which I could render. And O, Katie, it was 
very, very little compared with the tide of sym- 
pathetic feeling that surged up from my heart! 

‘‘After a few weeks, during which time I had 
often met Annetta, I was called upon business 
to a distant part of the country, and was de- 
tained some time. Upon my return, I immedi- 
ately repaired to the home of my afflicted friends. 
As I approached the house, I noticed that the 
window where I had been accustomed to seeing 
Annetta was closed, and the place wrapped in 
prison-like silence. My summons was answered, 
as usual, by the old servant. She did not speak 
in answer to my inquiry for Annetta, but pointed 
silently to the apartment where I had usually 
met her. I passed in, a feeling of sadness and 
awe pressing strangely upon me. Beside the 

i8 


274 


ANNETTA ; 


hearth sat her father, an old man now, bowed 
down by the weight of years and infirmities. 
On the opposite side stood a vacant chair, near 
which knelt Annetta, as if engaged in prayer. 
She did not observe my entrance, and I stood 
gazing wonderingly at them both. The feeble 
old man pointed every now and then to the 
vacant chair, murmuring brokenly, * My wife !’ 

*‘I was about to withdraw, feeling that my 
presence was perhaps an intrusion, when Annetta 
arose and turned toward me. She looked paler 
and sadder than I had yet seen her, and a wan 
smile crept to her lips as she advanced to wel- 
come me. In few words, she told me of her dear 
mother’s death ; how, alone, she watched and 
prayed beside her bed ; how, at last, in the midst 
of a wailing storm without, and the drear dark- 
ness and silence within, her spirit passed away. 
Her father missed the wife of his youth from her 
accustomed place, and mourned unceasingly for 
the companion of his life. 

Annetta finished her brief recital, and the 
tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks. With 
a deep sigh, she wiped them hastily away, and 
mechanically took up her work. Gently I drew 
it away, saying: 

‘ Annetta, dear friend, you need rest’ 

'“No, no,’ said she; 'it is for him, my poor 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 275 

father, who is all that is left me now on 
earth.’ 

“ I realized then, more truly than ever before, 
that sympathy was not the only feeling which 
had quickened into life at the touch of the sad 
young girl before me ; and there, in the gloom of 
that quiet room, with the old man moaning in 
his chair, I told the story of my love. She gazed 
upon me like one bewildered, her chest heaved, 
and her voice quivered with intensity of feeling, 
as she murmured, ‘For me! can it be that love 
remains for me.^’ 

“There are those, Katie, in the world, from 
whom hope has so long been excluded, that they 
fail to comprehend happiness when at last it 
dawns upon them. It was so with Annetta ; but 
when the poor, lone heart took in the full sense 
of the joy yet in store for her, her ecstasy was 
almost child-like in its sweet simplicity. She 
loved suddenly; her heart had been slumbering, 
but now the lethargy had passed away, and she 
realized that there was a new, unstirred depth of 
feeling there, which had never before awakened 
to assert its power over her life. But now she 
understood the bliss which springs from loving 
and being loved. From that hour, Annetta was 
changed ; she seemed to grow younger and more 
beautiful. Her voice took a fuller, richer tone. 


2/6 


ANNETTA ; 


and upon her cheek the rosy flush came and 
went. 

“We met daily. I shared her care for her 
aged father, and strove to divert and interest 
him. One morning, a short time after these 
events, I received a sudden summons home. 
The call was an imperative one, and I could not 
choose but obey it at once. I hastened to An- 
netta, and entreated that our marriage be con- 
summated without delay, as I could not think of 
leaving her. Annetta looked at me in silence, 
an expression of anxiety and pain spreading itself 
over her countenance. I smiled cheerfully as I 
took her hand, saying : 

“‘We shall see many lands far more beautiful 
than this. Ah, my Annetta, there is much in 
store for you. Let us hasten our preparations for 
departure.’ 

“Tears filled her beautiful eyes as she turned 
toward her father, who had become too infirm to 
hear us now ; our voices were meaningless to 
him. 

“‘My father,’ said she; ‘can he bear the 
journey ?’ 

“ ‘ Dearest,’ said I, ‘ we can not take him with 
us. Our path in life will henceforth be far re- 
moved from that which you have formerly trod. 
He could not survive the journey. We must 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 2JJ 

leave him here, in the care of competent persons. 
It is for the best, Annetta. Your life has been 
made up of sacrifices ; it is but right you should 
now know something of its pleasures.’ 

“ ‘ Leave my father !’ exclaimed she. 

‘‘ ‘ We will not leave him comfortless, my An- 
netta,’ said I. ‘ We will settle a competence upon 
him amply sufficient for all his wants ; we will 
confide him to careful hands, and God will watch 
over him.’ 

“ Paler and yet paler grew Annetta’s face, the 
light faded from the dark eyes, her lips quivered, 
and her voice had a strange, unnatural sound, as 
she replied: 

“‘Tempt me not. O Lawrence, I can never, 
never leave him !’ 

“‘Then,’ cried I, impulsively, ‘Annetta, you 
never truly loved me.’ 

“ One wild, reproachful glance — one quick, 
gasping cry — and the poor, tried heart gave vent 
to a torrent of tears. I drew her close to my 
heart ; reasoned long and earnestly, urged, en- 
treated — all to no purpose. Love’s sophistry 
failed to win her from her purpose. The conflict 
was a fearful one. It ended ; and youth, hope, 
and happiness faded forever away, leaving her a 
pale, sad, lonely woman, bereft of all life’s dearest 
joys. With a trembling, yet determined hand, 


2/8 


ANNETTA ; 


she put away all her dreams of bliss, drove back 
all the sweet impulses of her nature, turning 
resolutely away from the bright future I prayed 
her to enter with me. 

* I am all that he has,’ she cried ; ‘ we are 
alone in the world ; we will never be parted by 
any thing but death. Help me, O my God, to 
bear it!’ 

“ F urther entreaty was useless. I left her ; 
but, just before I sailed, I dispatched a note, 
full of protestations of ardent, undying love, 
begging her to relent. Her answer was brief, 
written evidently with a trembling hand, and 
contained only these words : 

“‘Farewell! My place is beside my father, 
whom my mother, upon her dying bed, commit- 
ted to my care. My work is to fulfill that trust, 
and to keep a home for the brother for whom I 
still watch and pray. My one bright dream of 
life is over. Happiness is not for me. I have 
loved you truly, and shall still love and pray for 
you while God gives me life. Annetta.’ 

“Maddened by her persistent refusal, I left 
the place ; but, though I have since traveled in 
distant lands, and mingled in varied, ever-chang- 
ing scenes, I could not banish from my heart 
the memory of Annetta. Her sad look haunted 
me wherever I went, and her sweet, low voice 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 2/9 

mingled with every sound that fell upon my ear. 
I now beheld the true beauty of her character. 
Such filial devotion, such an exalted sense of 
duty as her conduct displayed, now appeared to 
me worthy the highest tribute of praise. In 
pitiable contrast, my own selfishness stood re- 
vealed. 

Before a year had passed, urged by uncon- 
querable love and remorse, I resolved to return 
and make amends for my hasty, uncalled-for de- 
sertion ; for, in no milder terms, could I speak 
of it now. As I turned my face once more 
toward the home of my beloved, all my affection 
seemed to rush with a new power upon me, urg- 
ing me onward with all possible speed. I arrived 
in the well-known city as the shades of evening 
fell, shrouding all things in a mantle of dark- 
ness. Anxious to prove my contrition for hav- 
ing left her in loneliness and grief, I at once 
bent my steps toward her quiet home. As I 
drew near, I noticed that the house and grounds 
seemed deserted and lone, the echo of my foot- 
fall the only sound that broke the silence. With 
throbbing heart, I knocked eagerly for admit- 
tance; but the summons remained unanswered. 
I tried the door ; it yielded to my touch. I en- 
tered, and sought the well-remembered room ; it 
was empty. I called wildly upon Annetta’s 


28 o 


ANNETTA; 


name ; echo only answered the call. I ran from 
room to room ; all were alike deserted and still. 
A silence like that of death reigned throughout 
the place, and I stood like one in despair. Could 
it be that Annetta had been a second time 
snatched from me.? 

“Suddenly the thought occurred to me that 
possibly the old man might, ere this, have joined 
his wife in the better land, and Annetta have 
found a brighter, more genial home elsewhere. 

“I left the house; the heavy door slammed to, 
with a weird sound which caused a shiver to 
pass over me. I hastened to the hotel near by, 
and, taking the proprietor aside, questioned him 
in regard to the former inmates of the old house 
now so deserted and lone. Drawing my arm 
within his, he drew me out into the open air; 
and, pointing up to the starry heavens, solemnly 
said, ‘ They are there !’ O, the bitter sorrow of 
that moment, Katie ! I can not tell you how 
keen, how poignant it was. After I had, in a 
measure, recovered my composure, he guided me 
to the little church-yard, where slept my An- 
netta beside her aged parents. Under that moon- 
lit sky I learned how faithfully she had watched 
the last, days of her father, for whom she had 
sacrificed the brightest hope of life. Tenderly 
she performed every duty, anticipating every 


OR, THE STORY OF A LIFE. 


281 


want, never faltering or turning for a moment 
away from the task. He died, his cold hand in 
hers. A faint glimmer of reason returned ere 
the last hour came ; and it was to her a precious 
privilege to care for him then, and to hear him 
murmur, caressingly, ‘ My beloved daughter.’ His 
last blessing given, he raised his dim eyes toward 
heaven, and, exclaiming, ‘ My wife !’ fell asleep. 

“Annetta, my poor, darling Annetta, lived on 
in that silent, dreary home a few short months ; 
then sweetly and peacefully folded her hands 
upon her bosom, and went home. I listened in 
silence to the sad story, then asked to be alone 
with the dead. 

“ O, Annetta ! couldst thou but know the bitter 
remorse of the heart that loved you ! Hours 
passed, and still I lingered by her grave, think- 
ing of the many hours we had passed together 
near the resting-places of Eugene, William, and 
Isabel, an unbroken band now in the Redeemer’s 
kingdom. Sadly I thought of the long, long 
days of sorrow and loneliness through which she 
passed after I left her. Nobly she fulfilled her 
mission with woman’s truest devotion; and O, 
how great must be her reward! Truly, of her 
work she had no need to be ashamed when the 
words, ‘ Well done, good and faithful servant ; 
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord,’ fell upon 


282 


ANNETTA. 


her ear. Again I left the place, bearing with 
me a heavy, grief-laden heart. Long years have 
passed ; and yet Annetta’s memory still lives. 
Deep within my heart lies buried the remem- 
brance of those earlier years, and ever within 
my ears echo the low tones of the voice I loved. 
Wherever I go, remorse is ever present with 
me ; for I left her in sorrow, left her to die — I 
who had loved her truly but selfishly. The past 
can never be blotted out, the future must still 
be but a weary waiting for the end. I never 
look upon a pale, sad woman, without thinking 
that her youthful days may, like Annetta’s, have 
been blighted by the chilling blasts of trial and 
despair. Rest thee sweetly, my Annetta !” 











.i 

I 


I 









^ o /tv^nS^mI/^ sf» •< jS^u //o^ *» \N 

V. ^ ^ " .-e; 





